Glint
by Aalon
Summary: An AU take on the end of Season 3, in the cemetery at Roy Montgomery's funeral.
1. Chapter 1

**Glint – Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

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 **A/N:** Hello again. My youngest is now off to college, and my wife and I are doing our best to cope with the sudden decrease in noise – and fun – in the house. Fortunately, we get to go visit her during the season and watch her play, but for now, her empty room screams at us.

Ok, enough melodramatics. This story was actually inspired by Ironman7110, who challenged me to write a different story around the Knockout/Rise episodes. Although I have a general idea, I have to admit, this is one of those times when I am starting to post a story before I know exactly where I am going with it – so I guess we all will be surprised.

I hope you enjoy this one. It is so strange not to be looking forward to a Castle episode in the coming weeks.

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 _ **Wednesday Morning – May 25, 2011, 11:45 a.m., at a Cemetery in New York**_

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She stands stiffly at attention, fully aware of the brutal, bloody war waging between her heart and her head. She's adorned in her dark navy blue honor uniform.

White gloves, pristine and elegant.

The formal headgear – the official cap that shades her forehead, and covers her hair pulled back into a bun.

It's a look, Richard Castle decides, that is all-together different, not her at all. And yet it is intrinsically her at the same time. Somehow, she makes even the official funeral dress code seem . . . so Beckett. And he knows her well enough to realize the battle that is raging within the woman that he loves.

Yeah, he loves her. She's clueless, of course. She's with doctor what-his-name. He can't even remember motorcycle-boy's name right now. Not with the weight of sadness that covers this beautiful park of sorts.

Her voice – strong and vibrant – does little to betray her inner conflict. The words she speaks about a man she loves like a father.

"Roy Montgomery taught me what it meant to be a cop."

She loved Roy Montgomery. But God, she hates his guts this morning. How could he do this? How could he have been a part of it all along? All this time . . . all these years . . . he stood there pretending to care, pretending to be her friend, pretending to understand.

Only he wasn't pretending. He _did_ understand. Yeah, he understood all too well.

"He taught me that we are bound by our choices."

She pauses for a brief second or two, considering her words. Maybe if she says them with enough conviction, with enough force . . . maybe then she will believe them herself. Choices. Yeah, he made his choices. Choices she now has to live with.

"We are more than our mistakes."

She mentally clears her head, as she sees her captain's widow to her left. She sees his daughters. And her heart softens, pushing the damning thoughts in her head away. Yeah, Roy Montgomery screwed up big-time, and it cost her mother her life. Maybe he wasn't to blame, per se. But he was involved. Still, in the end, when it could no longer be hidden, he could have run. He could have gathered his mother hen and their chicks, and disappeared. He's a cop. He'd know how to do it.

Instead, he brought his secret to the forefront. To them. And then he went and dealt with his secret head-on, knowing full well that his actions would end here.

In a casket, in the sunlight, with his wife in tears, his daughters destroyed, his friends and partners conflicted.

His tab is paid-in-full. She knows this. And so she honors him.

Okay, maybe it's for him, maybe it's not for him. Maybe it's for Evelyn. Maybe it's for the girls. Maybe it's for the other detectives and cops of the 12th Precinct who will never know the real story. She blinks for a second – and to those watching, her action seems nothing more than the sadness for a fallen comrade.

Richard Castle, however, knows differently. As does Kevin Ryan. As does Javier Esposito.

Which makes the words she speaks next – the story she tells – all the more poignant. She is unaware of how much her words elevate her in their eyes.

Her words. They continue to rise above the sniffles and hitched breaths.

"Captain Montgomery once said to me that, for us, there is no victory – there are only battles."

His words – so recent – come back to her as she stifles a catch in her voice. She takes a deep breath as she continues.

"And in the end, the best you can hope for is to find a place to make your stand."

They were more than words, no idle thoughts, she now realizes. He was penning his own epitaph during that conversation with her. And then – _even then_ – he was using it as an opportunity to maybe, just maybe, give her one final life lesson. Hoping she would see it. Hoping it would stick.

"And if you're very lucky . . . you find someone willing to stand with you.'"

She glances over to Castle. He can barely see her eyes, somewhat hidden by the official cap that rides low above her brow. She almost falters, holding more tightly now to the makeshift podium that is adorned by red and purple flowers. She smells their fragrance as their scent lifts upward toward her nostrils now flaring with emotion.

In this moment, staring at the novelist who has shadowed her, chased her, teased her, angered her, frustrated her, confused her . . . in this moment, as she glances at him, considering the words she has just spoken, it hits her.

She _is_ lucky.

She _has_ found that someone.

She loves him.

Her voice finally cracks just as bit, as her volume drops ever so slightly, her stomach now exploding with tiny wings furiously searching for a way out.

She loves him!

"Our captain would want us to carry on the fight. And even if there is . . ."

Castle stares at her even more deeply now. Her words, and her glance . . . there was no ambiguity there. There was no hidden message. She has – surprisingly and completely out of character – put herself out there. In full public. And in this moment – a moment he has long ago all but given up ever attaining – he can only stand and stare. Even though every instinct is now to run and hold her – funeral or not – he can only stand and stare.

She continues to speak, but he only sees her lips moving. He no longer hears the words, as his mind screams at him to see the glint of light flashing to his right. It is far too low in the distance to be the sun, and he instinctively knows that it is something else that intrudes into this solemn moment. It's the second time the brief shining sears his peripheral vision. He ignored it the first time, too lost in her words, in her melodious voice, in the horror of the casket in front of them, in the memories of the shootout in the hangar only four days ago.

But this time, his mind recognizes the flashing reflection of light in the distance, about a hundred yards out behind one of the white headstones, standing tall in a row of stones that honor the fallen here. Without a thought, he is moving now, his heart exploding in his chest from the sudden rush of adrenaline, the sudden panic that has a firm grip on his chest, and the single word that escapes his mouth as he is now horizontal and in flight, arms outstretched.

"Kate!"

His mind pleads to the heavens that he can make it to her when his airborne trajectory suddenly shifts. He is pushed, forcibly, upon her as the jolt of pain rockets into his back and onward into his chest area.

For a second or two, he cannot think, he cannot see, and he definitely cannot breathe. His vision is blackened, and his mouth is suddenly parched. He opens his eyes, but sees nothing.

He doesn't see the woman lying below him. He doesn't see her mouth and eyes open in competing screams. The pain in his back seems to be subsiding, now a dull ache. But the burning in his chest increases, and he exhales and inhales quickly, feeling as if his chest is on fire. Every breath lights a match inside his lungs.

"Castle?" Kate screams, as her mind is fully conflicted, wanting to both simultaneously push him off of her and pull him tighter into her embrace. Perhaps it is years of experience, or perhaps it is just that she knows this man far more intimately than she will ever admit. But she immediately knows something is wrong with him. She pulls her hands away from his back, extending them vertically upward into the air. That's when she sees it. That's when her carefully recrafted life comes unglued.

Her white honor gloves are red.

And it's a lot of red.

She gazes fearfully at the man atop her now, no longer aware that she is screaming. No longer hearing the screams of those around her. No longer aware of Alexis Castle and Martha Rodgers and Kevin Ryan rushing towards the fallen duo.

She calls his name again, as she watches the expressive eyes dim, the usual sparkle fading like a candle at the end of its wick.

She doesn't see Detective Javier Esposito break away from his partner, looking not toward his two friends on the ground, but instead toward the sound of the second shot that booms throughout the cemetery. A former Special Forces marksman himself, he immediately has recognized the sniper attack and had turned his attention toward the direction of the attack itself. He rushes toward the line of graves in the distance, dashing between headstones as he sees a figure rise to flee the scene.

Esposito ignores the rising cacophony of shrieks behind him, his weapon raised, sprinting hard. He is fifty yards away from the retreating figure when it turns, brandishing a smaller weapon in hand. Esposito fires off two shots, and smiles as he is rewarded with the sight of the fleeing form falling to the ground. He approaches quickly, but cautiously, moving more toward his right in a flanking movement.

He knows snipers. He's been a sniper. A good one. He knows how dangerous people like himself can be when cornered on the field of combat. Which – make no mistake – is exactly what this once peaceful resting place has now become.

He comes upon the figure, facedown. No matter, he won't be caught off-guard. His weapon in both hands, he approaches slowly, kicking the would-be assassin in the leg. No movement. He nods his head with more confidence, as he uses his foot to roll the man over.

Esposito ever so subtly nods his head again, as he stares into the lifeless eyes that don't squint in the full sunlight that blazes overhead. He sees the pool of blood – two pools actually – now recognizing that both of his shots hit their target. He pauses – just to make sure – and drops to a knee to feel for a pulse.

Negative.

Satisfied, he rises, and turns back toward the carnage some one hundred and twenty yards away, cursing the lack of security that allowed this man to get within a football field of the funeral. As he approaches the grieving flock that mourns – mourned – his deceased captain, he notices Detective Kate Beckett kneeling on the ground.

" _Thank God,"_ he whispers to himself with relief, until his mind quickly starts calculating the alternatives.

Detective Kevin Ryan – his best friend – is also kneeling. Thank God he, too, is alive and well. But he is a good ten feet or so in front of Beckett. A horrible nagging in his stomach spurs Javier Esposito faster, as he now is sprinting back toward the wreckage in the distance. Seconds later, he gazes down at the ground ahead of him.

Kate Beckett doesn't even bother to hide the tears that flow down her cheeks, her head swiveling between the two forms lying prone in the grass.

Two bodies.

Kate cradles Richard Castle's face with one hand, her other hand holding her cell phone to her ear as she barks words to the 911 operator she has called. Both of her gloves – previously crisp white – are crimson-soaked. Streaks of his own blood from her gloves are now painted wildly across his face.

"Javi, help me!" Kevin Ryan screams at him, pulling Esposito's gaze down to the detective on the ground next to him. Ryan is frantically yelling at the uniformed officers who are trying – a bit too roughly – to pull a distraught Martha Rodgers away from the bleeding body in Ryan's hands. That's when Javier sees the red hair caked with blood, masking the glossy eyes on the young woman, and the ever-growing splotch of red in the grass below her torso.

"Oh shit," he whispers to the warm wind that blows hauntingly, teasingly.

"Alexis."


	2. Chapter 2

**Glint – Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

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 **A/N:** First, thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing, and to those well-wishers for my daughter at college (and her parents coping at home). I appreciate your thoughts so much.

On with the story, picking up at the hospital.

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 _ **Wednesday Morning – May 25, 2011, 1:07 p.m., on the Trauma floor at a New York Hospital**_

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"Cripes, it's a madhouse down there," Javier Esposito moans as he steps off the elevator. Kate Beckett greets him with a forced half-smile and a partial wave of her hand. He immediately notices that the waiting area here on the fourth floor is only slightly better.

The small cramped area, somehow, has press credentials scattered throughout. Of course the press would be here, although Kate idly wonders how they've pulled this off. The media was certainly in full force at the cemetery for the burial of a highly decorated police captain. That made sense. A police captain getting gunned down is news. So, the firefight at the hangar attracted a lot of media attention, especially when the dead included the police captain along with a recently-escaped felon.

For certain, the manhunt for Hal Lockwood, who had executed a daring escape during his arraignment, just over a week ago, has been the lead story, or at least the secondary story for much of the past week. So when Lockwood showed up dead, along with his crew next to the body of Roy Montgomery, the local news stations found a week's worth of stories for the morning, evening and late night broadcasts.

And now a cherished novelist . . . and his daughter have been caught in the crossfire. Yeah, this is news.

Kate stands next to the water fountain, her arms folded over her chest as she stares at the white cups below. Her thoughts are some fifty yards away behind the doors, in two separate operating rooms where the staff has been furiously prepping Alexis for surgery, while doing all they can just to keep Castle alive. Both are in critical condition – with equal concern for both, for different reasons.

He's been shot in the chest, and the moment she saw Josh walk in, she knew things were dire. Josh specializes in cardiology. So evidently, the bullet is in – or near – Castle's heart. She brings her hand to her own chest, involuntarily, as she tries to imagine what he is going through.

She had realized then – as soon as she saw him walk through the double doors – that Dr. Josh Davidson was the last person she wanted to see, and definitely the last person she wanted operating on Castle. But of course, that was patently unfair. He is – if nothing else - a professional, and personal agendas aside, he will do everything in his power to save Castle. She knows this.

Her thoughts quickly flip flop – as they have been for the past hour – back to his daughter. Alexis.

She was shot in the hip; easily a recoverable wound on its own. However, the force of impact had knocked her sideway as she fell, and she hit her head on one of the headstones adorning the plush, green grounds. Kate, herself, had been preoccupied with the man unexpectedly sprawled atop her, but her subsequent conversations with a clearly distraught Martha Rodgers have painted a picture of the horror that befell the younger redhead. Martha had replayed the sickening thud – the horrific cracking sound – that accompanied Alexis' fall to the ground that had been interrupted by the hard, unforgiving stone. As of half an hour ago, the young woman has yet to regain consciousness.

And speaking of unforgiving, that pretty much describes the not-subtle-at-all vibe she gets from the Castle matriarch. It's beyond clear that the elder woman holds Kate fully responsible for the dramatic state of her son and grand-daughter. Watching her son dive in front of the detective, taking the bullet for her had to rattle the older woman, no doubt. But to see her grand-daughter fall out of the corner of her eye . . . to hear the unforgettable sound of a skull fracturing . . . to see the blood staining her lower torso . . .

Pushing those images away yet again, Kate bends over, styrofoam cup in hand, watching the dark liquid pour from the small, complimentary pot of coffee as its flow noiselessly into her cup. She frowns, her nose wrinkled at the definite difference in taste she has become accustomed to, thanks to the man lying out of sight down the hallway. She hears her name being called, and her heart skips a beat.

"Kate Beckett!"

The voice is familiar, and to be honest, she has been expecting this one to show up. With the media all over this with breaking news segments interrupting the normal programming this afternoon . . . yeah, it was just a matter of time before she showed up.

Kate turns and feels the burn from the stinging slap across her face before she sees it.

Of course, Kevin and Javier are to her side in an instant, as always, with Javier pulling the Black Pawn book publisher away from his friend.

"Gina," Kate offers quietly, her own hand now covering the offending, growing red splotch on her face. She can't blame her. Not really.

"Don't," Gina hisses angrily. "Just don't, Detective! We all knew this would be how it ended. _You_ knew this would be how it would end! You pull everyone into your orbit, into your damn quest for justice. And everyone gets hurt. Everyone dies. Everyone except you!" she spits as Esposito tries to gently lead her away. But even for him, the words of Richard Castle's second ex-wife have a ring of truth to them.

Coonan. Ragland. Lockwood. McAllister. Montgomery. The list of casualties from Beckett's private war have been – in the past year or two – starting to pile up. And yeah, with Montgomery, it has hit close to home. But with the shooting of Richard Castle . . . and his daughter . . . well, now innocent bystanders are getting caught up in the war.

"I told him . . . I tried to tell him . . . when will it be enough, Detective?" Gina bellows, wiping her eyes, her voice now breaking as she once again attempts – unsuccessfully – to break free from Esposito's grip. He knows the tears on Cowell's face are angry tears, sad tears . . . tears of frustration.

"You know how he feels about you," Gina continues, now sobbing. "You know! And what do you do with it? You lead him along, keeping him close, keeping him as a fallback . . . and all the while, putting him in harm's way. Well, I hope you are finally satisfied, Detective!" she screams.

"Come on, Kate," Kevin Ryan says softly, as he gently pulls his fellow detective along with him toward the vending area behind the door next to the elevators, away from the scene behind them. The scene that more than one photographer in the area has gleefully captured. Again she wonders just how in the hell they managed to get in here . . . and stay in here.

"She doesn't mean it," Ryan tells her, "and even if she did, she's wrong."

"Is she, Kevin?" Kate asks, her voice barely a whisper. "Is she? I mean, do you really think that Castle ever – for even one moment – thought he would end up like this? And Alexis? Oh God, Kevin, his _daughter!_ "

Detective Ryan knows what is happening, in front of his eyes. She is breaking down – finally. For the past hour she has held it together admirably. Trying to put on a brave face, even though she is cratering inside. Gina has simply helped the journey along.

The sudden buzzing from her phone provides a welcome reprieve, but she is in no mood for a conversation with anyone right now. Especially when she sees it is not a number she recognizes. She ignores it, falling backward into the small chairs in the vending area as Kevin Ryan plops down next to her. He places his hand on her knee, comforting her with his touch. She – not for the first time – wonders if she deserves these friends. Gina is right. Everyone who touches this – who touches her – is dying.

Of course, it's a ridiculous statement, a clear exaggeration. But it is understandable, given her frame of mind. Her phone buzzes again, now annoying her. Once again she declines the call. She turns to speak to Kevin, placing her hand atop his, her gratitude for his support plainly seen in her eyes when her phone buzzes a third time.

"Someone want you pretty badly," Ryan tells her, pointing toward the offending device. "Maybe you should answer it."

Frowning, she accepts the call, pulling the cell phone up to her ear.

"Beckett", she announces herself crisply, immediately falling into her role as detective. It's easier than she might have imagined, all things considered.

"Ah, Detective Beckett," the unfamiliar voice greets her. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"As a matter of fact, you are. Who is this?" she asks, her instinct alarms now ringing incessantly as she tries – unsuccessfully – to place the voice.

"My name is Mr. Smith," he replies. His tone is gruff, and cold.

"How is Mr. Castle?" he asks.

"I'm sorry," Beckett replies. "I don't know you and I don't have time for –"

"I do suggest you _make_ time for me, Detective Beckett, after what I have done for you," he tells her, cutting her off. "It's clear that this thing is getting away from you. Trust me, you want to hear what I have to say."

She glances at Kevin Ryan, whose expression belies a rush of questions as he has watched her face roll through the color spectrum - first turning ashen white and now beet red. There are only a few people who can pull this kind of emotional reaction out of his friend, and one of those people is lying unconscious in surgery.

She shakes her head, mouthing the words 'hold on' to her friend as she stands and makes her way to the corner of the room, grateful that Kevin gives her the space she requests.

"Fine, start talking," she says, grudgingly.

"Thank you," Smith tells her. If that's really his name. She wonders how stupid he thinks she is.

"I suspect you don't have much time, so I will get right to the point," he tells her softly. "I am a . . . well, I _was_ a friend of Roy Montgomery. A very close friend."

"I'm sorry," she tells him, now briefly reconsidering her initial impression of the stranger on the phone. His voice, when talking about Roy, took on a much more somber tone.

"As am I," he tells her, and she can almost see, almost feel his head nodding as he speaks.

"By now you know the truth behind Roy's past," he continues. "Here is what you might not know. Roy kept your enemy at bay . . . his own form of blackmail if you will, to keep you safe."

"Really? People have been dying around – "she interrupts, but once again, he cuts her thoughts off in mid-sentence.

"Not _you_ , Detective," he corrects her, disarming her with his simplicity.

"It is true that people are dying. But not you. That was the agreement. You were not to be touched," he tells her. "However, that agreement of sorts went by the wayside in the past couple of weeks. Evidently, you've been snooping again. Roy's job was to prevent you from doing just that. In return, you lived."

He allows those words to settle, confirming what Roy had insinuated to her roughly a week ago.

"Before Roy . . . sacrificed himself," he continues, "he sent me a package. Everything he had in his possession about what happened to your mother, and the reason behind it – all of that is now in my possession. And I promised Roy that I would pick up where he left off. I have contacted those responsible for your mother's death . . . for Roy's death . . . and I have informed them that what he knew, I now know. What he had in his possession, I now have in mine."

"A lot of good that did," Kate interrupts again. "It seems like –"

"It arrived too late for me to do anything about what transpired at Roy's funeral," Smith continues, completely disregarding Kate's words.

"Apparently, he miscalculated how swiftly they would act. Regardless, I have since made sure that they know of the new status quo. So, the truce that Roy – for whatever reason – broke, now continues. However, here, as they like to say, is the rub."

He pauses for a few seconds, ensuring he has her full attention before continuing.

"The agreement is that _they_ back off, as long as _you_ back off," Smith tells her. As if sensing her disapproval, he quickly adds, "and this is non-negotiable, Detective. They know the information that I have, but they want your assurances that you will leave things alone. You leave them alone, they leave you alone."

"That's hardly much of a deal," she whispers angrily into her phone, offering a glance backward toward Kevin Ryan.

"That's the deal on the table," he tells her quickly. "As I said, I don't have much time – and I sense, neither do you. But let me leave you with one final thought, Detective."

"I'm listening," she tells him after a pause, realizing he is looking for some form of acknowledgement from her.

"Don't make my friend's sacrifice to be a wasted action," Smith warns, allowing a bit of menace to creep into his voice. "He left a widow and two daughters. And believe me, Detective – if they want you dead, you are dead. These people don't miss."

"They missed today, Mr. Smith," she fights back. "Assuming that is your real name. They missed me at the cemetery. I'm still here," she offers, defiantly.

His chuckle chills her to the bone, as she begins to truly question what type of man she is speaking with. His final warning literally takes her boat – already bobbing tenuously – and turns it upside down.

"What makes you think you were the target at the cemetery, Detective?" he asks. He allows that little gem to settle, and hearing the silence from her end is all the confirmation he needs.

"Your enemy . . . after Roy eliminated himself, it appears they decided upon a new approach. One that you saw firsthand this morning," he continues. "They have come to realize that you don't care about your own life. But perhaps you care about the lives of those around you. Your father. The coroner at the precinct. And obviously, it goes without saying that I hope you truly weren't as close to Mr. Castle as the media would have us believe."

Ryan is at her side now. Seeing – well, actually hearing – her drop the cup of coffee onto the floor, and seeing her face pale and shrink, her cheeks all but hollowing before his eyes – he has rushed quickly to her, and finds himself having to hold her up. She is almost dead weight.

"Beckett?" he asks. "Kate?"

"Unless you are stupid . . . or extremely selfish . . . you should not hear from me again, Detective," Smith concludes. "I know this seems unfair to you. But I suspect Mr. Castle . . . and his daughter would think that today's current events are grossly unfair as well. For now, I will tell your enemy that you have agreed to their terms. Of course, if you decide to go in a different direction . . . well . . ."

He lets those words hang in the air between them.

"Can . . . we need to meet," she offers, both a question and a statement. "I need –"

"Oh I don't think so, Detective Beckett," he replies. His voice is cold again. "I have a family. There is no way I am going to become a casualty in your war. I've done enough already. I just hope that I am in time with them. Who knows who else in your life they might be coming after next?"

The click, followed by dead air, startles her. She stares at her phone, and then at Detective Ryan who stands next to her, supporting her. Her vision begins to blur as she considers the ramifications of what she has just heard.

Castle. Alexis.

They were the targets. Not her.

And there could be more.

It _really is_ her fault.

The guilt – previously imagined, but now pure and confirmed – slams into her, driving her into the waiting blackness. Detective Kevin Ryan catches her as she faints on her feet, as he now screams for Javier, screams for a nurse, screams for anyone to come and help him, and wondering exactly who – and what – has spooked his friend so thoroughly.

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 **A/N:** Let me say, up front, that I have no problem whatsoever with how the Knockout episode concluded. Having Castle jump to save Beckett, but be just a second too late, sent the show in a direction which gave us Rise, and ultimately, Always. But it is interesting just to consider the 'what-if' scenario that Kate wasn't the target. That Bracken – still unknown to her at this time – would resort to hurting those she loved instead. Trust me, I am glad they didn't take that approach. That would have led to some tragic storytelling. I suppose that's for darker minds like mine to pursue.

Next chapter up in a couple of days. Thanks for reading, and thanks for all of your thoughts and comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Glint – Chapter 3**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** Thanks again for all of the follows and favorites, and reviews and some very interesting PMs. All are greatly appreciated, as always. We are headed to Denver this weekend to visit one of our sons who we haven't seen in quite a while, so I wanted to get this chapter posted before we take off tomorrow morning. So, without any further ado . . . back to the story, still at the hospital, now moved to the ICU Floor where Castle is (hopefully) recovering.

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 _ **Thursday Morning – May 26, 2011, 9:20 a.m., on the ICU Floor at a New York Hospital**_

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"Wake up, sleepy-head."

The feminine voice, loud and brash, startles Detective Kate Beckett awake. She blinks a few times, pushing the nightmare behind her. She glances around quickly, for a brief instant unsure of her surroundings before it all comes crashing back to her. Castle diving in front of her, taking a bullet meant for her. At least that's what everyone believes. She now knows that she was never the target.

He was.

And the nightmare returns . . .

She shakes the cobwebs free, taking in the grinning medical examiner that stands above her before turning her gaze to the patient in the bed next to her.

"I'm awake," Kate tells her, her voice low, not bothering to stifle the large yawn that has engulfed her face.

"Keep it down, Lanie," she whispers, pointing toward Castle with her thumb.

"Actually I was _talking_ to writer boy," Lanie deadpans, bringing a rare smile to her friend. There hasn't been much to smile about over the past twenty-plus hours. This time yesterday, things had been somber, yeah – funerals tend to be somber. But neither Castle nor his daughter were occupying hospital beds with serious injuries. His injuries have been definitely life-threatening. Hers? Well they still aren't sure yet, how serious things are, or what the ramifications of her smashing her head on a headstone will be.

"He still hasn't awakened?" Lanie asks, her smile gone and her honest concern now taking over.

"No, not really," Kate replies wistfully. "Oh, he's stirred a couple of times, moaned and fallen back asleep."

"Are they concerned about that?" Lanie asks, pulling up a chair to sit beside her friend next to the bed. She eyes their friend lying there, seemingly in a peaceful sleep.

"I . . . I don't know. I don't think that's their biggest concern right now," Kate tells her, brushing an idle strand of hair away from her face. "He's pretty medicated right now, so it's probably best that he just sleep."

The two women stare at the patient, for a few seconds oblivious to the other before Kate breaks the silence, leaning over to her friend with a sudden, tight hug on the medical examiner.

"What's that –"

"Thank you, Lanie," Kate interrupts, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you so much."

Lanie Parrish fights her own tears as she returns the emotional embrace, knowing full well what Kate is thankful for. The image from yesterday of Lanie, straddled atop Castle in the moving gurney, holding the compress to his bloody chest with Kate in quick pursuit down the hallway of the hospital is one that Kate will never forget. Nor is the image of her friend – with Castle's blood smeared across her chest, completely staining her gloves as she crawled from the gurney as they rushed Castle into surgery.

And yes, the picture of Lanie Parrish standing helplessly as Castle was wheeled away - his blood dripping from her gloved hands onto the tiled floor below – that's another image that will never go away.

"Does he know about –"

"No!" Kate hisses, a bit too harshly, she knows as she shakes her head, pulling away from their embrace.

"I'm sorry, Lanie. I didn't mean to snap," she whispers again. "He's out, you can see that. But who knows what he can hear right now? And no, we haven't said anything about 'her'."

She's talking, of course, about Alexis.

"He hasn't been awake enough in any form to understand much," Kate continues. "But we've all agreed that with his heart in the condition it's in now, and not knowing his state of mind until he is fully awake, not knowing what he even remembers . . . there is no talking about junior just yet."

"Have you seen her yet?" Lanie asks.

"No," Kate admits. "Not yet. Well, I mean, I've been down to her room – last night – but she was asleep. I'm not sure if she's awake yet."

"She is," Lanie replies, drawing a look from the detective.

"I stopped in on her room on the way up," Lanie explains. "She's in a lot of pain, from both her hip but much more, her head. They're keeping the room dark."

"Migraines?" Kate asks.

"I don't know, I didn't hear anyone talk about migraines," Lanie replies, her voice dropping slightly in volume as she glances at Castle.

"Definite concussion, though. Bad one. Cracked skull. They haven't decided what to do yet, but thank God there doesn't seem to be swelling right now. But she was bleeding from her ear yesterday. At least that's what Martha said."

"I know," Kate replies. "The doctor said they think it is a basal fracture, but wants to do a CT scan to verify. They were supposed to be doing that this morning."

"Yeah, in about twenty, thirty minutes," Lanie confirms, glancing at her watch. "They are actually hoping for the best. It wasn't an open fracture, or a depressed fracture, so they are thinking the damage to the brain was minimal, if anything."

The relief on Kate's face is almost audible as it is visible. It's a face that is showing the strain of the past twenty-four hours – really more than that. Even the days leading up to the funeral – interacting with Evelyn, working through her warring anger and love for her now-dead captain – it's starting to add up, in many ways.

"How is Martha doing?" Kate asks, lowering her eyes. "I . . . I haven't seen her this morning. I can't imagine . . ."

"Is Martha . . . is she talking with you?" Lanie asks, trying to be delicate, knowing the likelihood that Mama Castle will circle the wagons right now.

"Oh Lanie," Kate mutters, unable to finish her sentence. She really doesn't want to consider her standing with Castle's mother right now, and besides . . . that's really just not all that important at the moment. The older woman has bigger things on her mind.

Lanie nods her head in understanding, placing a hand on Kate's shoulder for support. Kate surprises her by immediately placing her own hand atop Lanie's. The medical examiner notices how frail Kate looks, and realizes that her friend has likely had little – if anything – to eat or drink in the past day.

"Let's go get something to eat," Lanie tells her. "He's not going anywhere," she adds, trying to bring a bit of levity to the situation.

"I'm not going anywhere until he wakes up," Kate argues. "It was bad enough that they wouldn't let me in ICU Recovery yesterday. I'm just glad that they are allowing me here in this room."

"Still ICU floor, though," Lanie comments.

"Yeah, but at least here they are allowing a few visitors – two at a time," Kate tells her.

"Oh yeah, I got the third degree from Nurse Ratchet at the front desk," Lanie comments, drawing another weak smile from her friend. Kate knows what Lanie is trying to do, and though she doesn't articulate it, she is thankful for her best friend.

"Look," Lanie decides, standing up and reaching her hand down toward Kate. "You need to eat. He's resting. It's going to take us less than thirty minutes to go downstairs, eat a quick breakfast from the cafeteria, and get back upstairs. Look at him. He's out cold."

She's dragging the detective now, and Kate knows she is right. It's been over twenty-four hours since she has eaten, and that was orange juice and a piece of toast yesterday morning before the funeral. She knows she needs to get something inside a stomach that has been quite vocal this morning.

"Fine," she gives in, walking toward the door with her friend. "A quick bite and that's it."

"That's all I have time for anyway," Lanie tells her. "I told Sid I'd be coming in a little late this morning, and he's been gracious about staying on an extra hour or so."

"Perlmutter's doing this for you?" Kate half jokes. "He _does_ know this is Castle you're visiting, right?"

"There's my girl," Lanie smiles broadly, pleased with Beckett's attempted sarcasm.

"He's actually been quite . . . human about the whole thing," Lanie replies, quickly amending her thoughts when she sees Kate's skeptical reaction.

"I know, I know. But even Sidney has a heart somewhere in there," Lanie explains as they walk out the door. Kate offers a glance back at the patient in the bed, with pursed lips, before closing the door. The short walk to the elevator is interrupted when the elevator doors open before either can press the down button. Out walks Martha Rodgers, her eyes red. She looks tired. It's disarming for Kate because she has never seen the woman in public not at least attempting to look her best.

"Martha," Kate greets her, almost timidly.

"Detective Beckett," Martha replies, opting for the formal approach, which obviously does not go unnoticed by the two younger women.

"How is Alexis?" Lanie asks quickly, intervening. "We were just headed downstairs to the cafeteria to get a bite to eat. Would you like to –"

"They just took Alexis for a CT scan," Martha replies, her eyes focused on the medical examiner. "And no, I'm not hungry. Go on. It gives me a few minutes to come look in on Richard. There is no change?"

"Not yet," Kate answers, bullying her way into the conversation, forcing Martha's eyes towards her. "He comes in and out, but he is still heavily medicated."

"Of course," Martha answers coldly, turning her attention away from the detective and walking toward her son's room. The unspoken chill is felt by both women left standing at the elevator.

"Well . . . that was pleasant," Lanie offers, her voice low.

"Can you blame her?" Kate replies, her spirits drifting.

"Look, I'm not saying this is your fault, girl, you know this," Lanie begins, "but no, I can't blame her. It can't be easy watching your child jump in front of someone else and get shot all to hell. I mean, damn, he's a writer, not a secret service agent."

"And I'm far from the president," Kate mutters.

"That you are, girl. That you are."

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 _ **Half an hour later, still Thursday Morning – May 26, 2011, back on the ICU Floor**_

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Kate is silent as she exits the elevator back on the ICU floor, headed back to Castle's room. She is clearly dreading another icy run-in with Martha, but the alternative is unacceptable. She and Lanie Parrish rushed through a mini-breakfast of sorts downstairs in the large cafeteria. The medical examiner made sure her friend ate a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast – which the detective promptly scarfed down, drawing strained laughter from both women.

Lanie used their time together wisely, reminding Kate that none of this is her fault, that Castle has all but been her partner for the past three years. It follows that his natural reaction – God bless him – was that of any other partner. He saw his partner in danger and reacted.

It sounded so logical. It sounded so right. But Kate knows it is wrong. Completely wrong. It _is_ her fault.

She doesn't bother to knock. She simply opens the door, and is rewarded with an empty room, save the sleeping patient in the bed. Evidently Martha decided to make her visit quick, opting for an early exit before Kate could return.

No matter, she pushes any thoughts of the family matriarch out of her mind as she re-takes her seat next to the sleeping author. She reaches over the bed rail, and softly grabs his hand, locking her fingers within his. She stares at the image – their interlocked fingers – and shudders at the thought that she has pushed him away and waited so long to do something so simple. She is taken aback with how right it feels, and the butterflies that accompany such a simple action. She is still lost in those thoughts a few minutes later when the door opens and she is brought face-to-face with another person she'd rather not see right now. And apparently, he isn't too pleased with the picture painted before him.

"Kate?" Dr. Josh Davidson remarks questioningly.

Instinctively Kate quickly – guiltily – retracts her hand from Castle's, only making the scene before the doctor appear even more damaging.

He takes in her appearance – the most obvious being that she is still in her formal uniform from yesterday. Which means she's been here all night. Whatever emotions, whatever feelings the surgeon is experiencing get quickly buried within his professional training as he tightens his lips momentarily before turning his attention to the patient.

"How is he this morning?" Josh asks, no longer looking at her as he walks toward the bed, his stethoscope already being pulled from his white coat pocket and into his hand.

"In and out," she replies. "Mostly out."

He nods his head, as he reaches the bed, walking to the other side. He leans over the railing, gently placing the cold resonator against Castle's chest, listening intently. For a few seconds there is only the silence of his listening. He places the resonator on different spots of the patient's chest, his face a blank mask that gives nothing away.

"Thank you," Kate whispers.

"What was that?" Josh asks, straightening himself back up and now gazing at her.

"Thank you," she repeats. "For saving him."

He stares at her for a moment before replying.

"It's what I do," he remarks casually. "He is very, very lucky. I'm actually surprised he made it."

"That bad?" she asks, as if this new knowledge has any impact on the prognosis of the man in the bed next to her.

"It wasn't good," Josh replies, as he begins to check the vitals on monitor just to the left of Castle's bed.

"Time to wake him up," he states aloud, again leaning over the bed, this time his face closer to Castle's face.

"Mr. Castle," he says loudly, startling the detective who now stands as well.

"Mr. Castle, do you know where you are?"

Kate is surprised to see Castle's eyes squinting and blinking – as if trying to come out of some deep sleep – which of course is precisely what is happening.

"Mr. Castle, can you open your eyes?" Josh asks, his voice still loud.

Castle moves his lips a bit, still squinting. A couple of seconds later, his eyes open – close – then open again. For the first time, Kate sees a hint of life in those eyes, and her voice hitches.

"Castle?" she asks, placing her hand atop his once again. It is a motion that does not go unnoticed by the doctor in the room.

Castle slowly turns his head toward her, his eyes reaching hers. There is no evidence that he sees – or recognizes – the woman he has shadowed for three years. He slowly turns back to the masculine voice that still calls to him.

"Mr. Castle, can you look at me?" the surgeon asks once again. Slowly, his vision comes into focus. He recognizes the doctor. He quickly – fearfully – glances at the ceiling as his mind tries to place where in the hell he could possibly be. The lights are bright and none of this is familiar. He turns and gazes at Beckett once more, his lips now trying to work.

"K . . . Ka . . ."

His eyes suddenly shut tight, his face now a mask of pain as his left hand slowly moves toward his chest.

"Uh uh, Mr. Castle," Josh tells him, not so gently taking his hand and placing it back to the rail.

"I don't need you destroying some of my best work," he tells the patient. Kate, although she knows her current boyfriend is the consummate professional, is still taken aback with his ability to compartmentalize the situation. He's no idiot. But thank God, he is a surgeon first. A doctor first.

"Where . . ."

Castle can only put the one word out there before the pain overtakes him again. The pain meds are doing their job, of course. The pain he feels isn't overwhelming. Not yet. That comes in another day or so as they start "weaning him off the good stuff" as Josh Davidson is saying out loud.

But the pain is surprising, given his flooded state of mind as he awakens.

"I've got you on a drip, so the pain killers are doing their job," the surgeon tells him, knowing that Castle is experiencing a host of feelings right now: Pain, yes. But confusion, mostly. The real pain will be coming soon enough.

Now the hard part.

"Do you remember what happened, Mr. Castle?" Josh asks.

"Rick?" Kate whispers softly.

Castle's eyes dart back and forth between the two – his mind now starting to kick-start itself back into operation.

"Roy . . ."

"Yes, Captain Montgomery is dead," Josh replies, and his sudden stoic, bedside doctor's manners would almost seem a caricature to Kate if she weren't seeing it first-hand.

"What do you remember, Mr. Castle?" he asks.

Castle blinks a few times, as if trying to focus, then re-focus before answering.

"I've been shot . . . ?"

It's almost a question. It's a statement, no doubt, but it's almost as if he is fighting the reality – desperately trying to make it less true, less real.

Less cruel.

It doesn't work, as he winces again.

"Yes, you were shot, Mr. Castle," Josh tells him. "You were very lucky. You're in recovery now. You're in the ICU. Do you understand me?"

Castle nods his head wordlessly. It's enough for the surgeon.

"Good, good, he's coming out of it well," Josh says aloud, pulling himself up straighter once again as he starts moving toward the door. "Sometimes patients don't remember things – the mind more or less blocks things out. That doesn't seem to be the case here. At least not so far."

He reaches the door before turning back again.

"I will send in the nurse, and be back in a minute," he tells Kate, who simply nods her head, gratefulness showing in her eyes. She waits until he is gone before looking back down toward Castle, who has been staring at her while the doctor stepped out.

"He saved me?" Castle asks, confusion readily showing.

"Yes," Kate replies. "Lanie, a team of paramedics . . . Josh . . . a number of people. But he performed the surgery."

Castle merely nods his head. He doesn't want – or need – to get into 'that' right now. He's alive. That's what is important.

"What do you remember, Rick?" she asks, and he's taken aback with her use of his first name. He quickly discards that line of thinking, realizing she is being soft with him simply because he is a patient recovering from a gunshot. A shot meant for her.

"I remember everything," he tells her. "I remember everything."

"Oh Castle," she cries, tears suddenly flushing down her face. She doesn't care. He's alive. That's all that matters.

"I'm so sorry," she tells him, gripping his hand tighter but careful to stay away from his chest. Her tears drop easily to the sheet that covers him. Her sudden emotional outburst – something he has never seen from her, not like this – surprises him.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats, sniffling above him.

"It's not your fault, Beckett?" he tells her, falling into his role. The role he plays so naturally. The pain in his chest is increasing, though, and suddenly he is very tired, very sleepy once again.

"It was my choice," he tells her as his eyes drift away, closing. "My choice."

He's asleep again, and her soft cries become sobs now as she watches his face – grimacing even in sleep now. Her mind floats between the man she now realizes she is in love with . . . to his daughter . . . to the mysterious phone call with Mr. Smith . . . if that's even his name.

" _My choice,"_ she repeats in her mind. That's what he thinks. It's what he thinks is true. But she knows differently. She knows that he – not she – was the target all along. He and his daughter.

"No, it wasn't, Rick," she whispers, grateful that he cannot hear, and wondering – fearfully wondering – how in the world she will be able to tell him this . . . all the while knowing she can't tell him. Not yet. Oh, she knows she has to. And she will. But not here, and not now.

Staring down at him, through tearful eyes and blurry vision, she wonders if this is how secrets begin.

.

 **A/N:** I hope to get something posted tomorrow before we take off, but if I don't – I apologize in advance as I won't be doing much until I get back after the weekend. Thanks to everyone who is reading along. Secrets are interesting. Sometimes they form with ill-intentions. Other times, they are birthed out of pure motives. But the result will always be the same.

See you next chapter . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Glint – Chapter 4**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

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 **A/N:** So, I returned from Denver this evening, and am now able to get this chapter posted. I really did want to get it posted before I left. Anyway, before we continue, there was a review by a reader from Brazil left in Portuguese. Thank you for your kind and encouraging comments. So cool!

Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing. And to coyotepup4 for an interesting idea for down the road . . . ah, writing is so much fun.

On with the story . . .

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 _ **Thursday Morning – May 26, 2011, 11:20 a.m., on the 2nd Floor at a New York Hospital**_

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Dr. Angela Levinson stands next to the bed, stretching her back as she straightens back up. She's spent the last minute or so bent over the still form of Alexis Castle, who lies awake but unmoving in the bed. The room is darkened – intentionally – helping the young woman to begin her recovery from the concussion that currently afflicts her.

"So, how is she, Doctor?" Martha Rodgers asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Bright lights, loud noises, all of those things are being avoided. And no television.

"Well, as I said, the CT scan confirmed a basal fracture," she begins and quickly alters her messaging style as she sees the older woman wince at the word 'fracture'. As in cracked skull. Laymen's terms, of course.

"Again, Ms. Rodgers," Doctor Levinson continues, "this was actually the best case scenario. There is no bleeding. Thankfully, the scan showed there is minimal cerebral edema . . . forgive me, that is to say some slight swelling on the brain . . .

Martha nods thankfully in understanding, her confused look over the medical term passing, which allows Levinson to continue once again.

"This is not unexpected with head injuries, especially concussions. This also explains some of the memory loss she is experiencing."

"Will her memories return?" Martha asks.

"Statistically, she should regain her full capacities, although I can't say when?" Levinson replies, a slight frown of frustration on her face.

"A concussion is a result of a sharp injury to the head, of course," she continues. "Sometimes they produce unconsciousness or bleeding in and around the brain. Fortunately Alexis is not presenting with any bleeding –"

"But she was unconscious," Martha frets.

"True. That was a hard blow to the head your daughter experienced," Dr. Levinson acknowledges. "Understand, during a hard blow such as the one Alexis experienced, the brain – in laymen's terms – bounces back and forth within the brain cavity. This causes her brain cells – called neurons – to tear, or stretch. When this happens, blood starts accumulating between the brain and the outer layer, called the dura. This forms a clot. The swelling – in Alexis' case, fortunately minimal – can affect brain functions. Speech, balance, eye movement, even breathing."

"And memory," Martha adds questioningly.

"Unfortunately, yes," Levinson responds. "However, as I said earlier, I expect this to pass. We often see young people Alexis' age – I admit typically they are athletes – present with concussions and memory loss. Sometimes their full memory function returns in minutes. In others, I have seen it take as many as seven, eight, ten days."

Martha gazes down with saddened eyes at her young granddaughter, whose head is wrapped. She stares at the walker which stands next to the young woman's bed. She's been up on her feet once already this morning. The doctors are in the midst of conflicting desires – on one hand, to get her out of bed and walking on her damaged hip. On the other hand, keeping her calm, in bed, in the dark due to her head injury is of utmost importance.

Fortunately, the surgery to remove the bullet from her hip was successful. Dr. Levinson has already expressed her satisfaction that the bullet did not provide any serious structural skeletal damage to the young patient. It – and the surgery – have left a mark; a battle scar that Martha figures the young redhead will have to explain only to a very small number – during intimacy of course. Then again, the bikinis – _"if you can call them that,"_ she thinks – that they wear these days reveal enough so that the story behind her battle scar will probably come up during summers at the beach.

Right now, though, that's the least of Martha's worries.

And it is the least of the worries of the young woman lying in the bed.

"You still haven't seen dad?" Alexis asks, her volume low. The look of sadness – and disappointment – on Alexis' face is evident. Her dad? Nowhere in sight? It doesn't make sense.

"Not yet, kiddo," Martha bravely offers. Your father is on his way, I promise you. He will be here as soon as he can.

"Okay," Alexis offers, resigned and dejected. Her father is her world. He has always been there for her. Always. They told her she was shot. They told her she hit her head as she fell to the ground. They told her the fact she cannot remember any of this is not unexpected, and she should regain her memories. None of it matters. Her head hurts, badly. Her hip hurts. It throbs. It is dark, things are kind of hazy.

Through it all, she has one burning thought that flames brighter by the moment. She wants her father.

His absence is pronounced, and completely out of character. She – for a moment earlier this morning – had wondered if something had happened to her father.

No, they haven't told her about Richard Castle. They want her to remain calm, and Martha – grudgingly – admitted that finding out that her father was shot – in the chest – and is one floor up in ICU – no, the young girl would not react well. She doesn't remember being shot. She doesn't remember him being shot. For now, that is the status quo they have decided to adhere to.

The doctor continues her exchange with Martha, but Alexis is not hearing any of the words anymore. They are but noises in a well of deep water, rumbling somewhere in the distance. She is getting tired again, and truth be told, really doesn't want to focus on the jabber going on between the two women. She just wishes they would shut up, or get out. Or even both, preferably. She closes her eyes, wincing for a moment. Thankfully, Dr. Levinson sees this, and decides to take the conversation outside.

After taking her leave of her patient, Levinson and Martha move toward the door and – as silently as possible – exit the room. Alexis leans her head back into her pillow, opening her eyes slowly for a moment.

"Finally," she barely moans aloud. She pauses, and then whispers the silent plea.

"Please help me, God," she asks softly, a tear falling down the side of her face unto the pillow below as she closes her eyes tightly. It's a tear of pain, and a tear of a growing, gnawing fear.

"Please," she asks again, hearing the door open once again. Evidently Martha has returned. She decides to keep her eyes closed. She doesn't want to talk. It's not that she doesn't want to talk to Martha. She just doesn't want to talk to anyone.

The janitor moves slowly, pushing the large trash receptacle along. He hums softly to himself, a tune Alexis strains to hear, but even that is too much for her now. She offers a slightly audible moan, turning her head away from the noise. Clearly not Martha, she realizes.

Her silence – and feigned sleep – give the janitor a chance to glance around, his steely eyes quickly taking in the surroundings and status. It's a simple reconnaissance mission for the older man. He needs to assess the condition of two patients, for the purpose of determining their mobility. He looks at the monitor for a few seconds, touching the screen, taking in her vitals and nodding with satisfaction.

Jackson Hunt drove well into the wee hours of the morning from Virginia, as soon as he had heard about the shooting last night on the late evening news. His sense of urgency had greatly accelerated – along with the speed of his large, ultra-charged SUV – when a call from a trusted source gave him the bad news. Well, the worse news.

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 _ **Last Night, on the road from Virginia to New York City**_

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" _Stone, you sitting down?" Major Terrance Cooper had asked, a decidedly nervous tenor to his voice._

" _You could say that," Jackson Hunt had replied. "I'm driving to the city."_

" _You good to talk?" Cooper had asked._

" _Quit stalling T," Hunt had interjected. "You have something to say, say it."_

" _The shooter," Cooper had replied._

" _What about the shooter?"_

" _Adam Greer," Cooper had answered softly._

 _Jackson Hunt's silence was predictable, and Cooper gave his friend a few seconds to digest and process this new information before it regurgitated, explosively._

" _You're sure . . ." Hunt finally had asked, but he already knew the question. Cooper would have verified and re-verified this particular information before giving it to the CIA man. Especially with the just-as-predictable conclusion that he was certain would be forming with Hunt – as it had with the Major._

" _I'm sure, my friend," Cooper told him._

 _Adam Greer was a known freelancer to the CIA. As an ex-special forces sniper with absolutely lethal hand-to-hand skills, Greer was a formidable foe for anyone who crossed his path. And Greer has . . . had a reputation. A well-earned reputation gained through years of service to his country, and then later in service to . . . others._

 _Yeah, he had a reputation all right._

" _Greer never misses," Hunt almost whispered into the microphone built into the steering wheel._

" _I know," Major Cooper had replied._

" _I mean ever, Terrance," Hunt had added, his agitation growing._

" _I know, Stone."_

 _There had been another few seconds of silence before Hunt spoke again._

" _They still at General?" Hunt had asked._

" _Yes. I'm here now. Came here as soon as I heard," Cooper told him. "I'm watching things till you get here."_

" _Thank you, my friend," Hunt had said, and unceremoniously hung up without further conversation. He stared straight ahead at the dark road and white lines flying ever faster towards him considering this new information._

" _What have you gotten yourself into, Son," he had said aloud, frowning._

.

 _ **Present Time – Back at Alexis Castle's Hospital Room**_

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Jackson Hunt picks up a couple of items, examining them before tossing them into his mobile trash receptacle. His continues humming the same tune, his mind recalling the conversation with Major Cooper from late last night, just before midnight. It was bad enough to know that his son – and his granddaughter – had been shot. It was bad enough to know that he was in serious, serious condition.

Hearing that his shooter had been identified as Adam Greer?

He purses his lips as he hums, recalling the anger and frustration that came with the realization of what that one name meant.

Greer never misses. Ever. So despite the newscast that clearly and unequivocally stated that Richard Castle, famous author and social figure, had taken a bullet meant for an NYPD detective who was delivering a graveside eulogy, Hunt knows the truth. If Kate had been the target, Kate would be the one in the hospital. Especially if Greer managed to get off a second shot.

No, Hunt has no illusions. If Greer shot his son, then his son was the target all along. And shooting his daughter simply reiterated that truth.

There had been no guards around his son's room. There was no need for guards. As far as anyone and everyone – in the police department, in the hospital – as far as anyone knows, Detective Kate Beckett had been the target. Richard Castle had bravely jumped in front of her, taking the bullet meant for her. His daughter had been among the throng that had rushed to her fallen father, and had taken the second shot – also meant for Kate Beckett. At that point, the assassin, figuring to try again another day, took flight, only to be gunned down by some detective named Javier Esposito.

The only problem with that – as Hunt knows – is that this particular sniper has never missed. So Hunt has two questions this morning. First, why were his son and granddaughter targeted? His books aren't _that_ bad. And as far as Hunt knows, he hasn't made any serious enemies during his playtime shadowing the detective – at least not any enemies that could afford Greer.

The second question he has, as he gazes at the young redhead he knows is faking sleep is this: Who is this Detective Esposito who was able to – evidently rather easily – get the drop on one of the best shots, and better assassins, that Hunt knows?

He is in one of his favorite disguises right now – the ever-present janitor. The one person in any organization who has carte blanche access anywhere, virtually anytime. This disguise gives him access to both floors that house his family. It's sinfully easy.

No one pays attention to the janitor. Even if the janitor seems to be new and unknown, no one pays much attention. Union workers occasionally drift from hospital to hospital, taking shifts for one another. It's a specific role he has been able to utilize often on the east coast of the country, and it's effective, particularly since the Agency isn't supposed to be operating inside the country.

"Per se," he smiles to himself. Sure, he understands the need for those rules. He just questions rules that have far less value in the modern world of technology and terrorists, where the enemy no longer sits on one side of the border, but instead infiltrates both sides with deplorable ease. He considers such laws that require him to 'pass the baton' to a different agency simply because of geography to be outdated and foolish.

It's not a political statement one way or the other. Just a fact of life for anyone in 'the business'. Make that a fact of life or death.

He wipes tired eyes as he smiles toward the young woman, and heads toward Alexis' private restroom, content to 'clean' the small room while lost in his thoughts. The bug he has just planted underneath the monitor next to her bed, along with the mini-surveillance camera that doubles as a hand dispenser on the sink next to the door will give him both audio and visual access to the room. He closes the restroom door halfway, taking a deep, cleansing breath.

He had arrived onsite to the hospital just after six in the morning. The shooting of Richard Castle and his daughter had been big news on the cable news channels – not because of his son's importance, of course – but because of his celebrity status. He's already checked in on his son earlier this morning. Twice in fact. His demeanor while cleaning his son's room – emptying waste and medical receptacles and cleaning the restroom in the private ICU room and planting similar listening and visual devices – was decidedly clinical, as he ascertained himself to his son's current state.

The same cannot be said now about his demeanor. Upon entering his granddaughter's room, his mood has turned decidedly deadly – the humming simply masking an uncommon fury simmering beneath the surface of his façade.

Seeing the intentionally darkened room, he immediately recognized the potential protocol for a concussed, migraine-suffering patient, and his heart went out to the young woman he has watched grow up since childhood.

He lifts the toilet seat, replacing it quickly – just passing time while he takes in the surroundings there – ensuring nothing is out of the ordinary, as he considers his granddaughter. He's so close to her right now, but he smiles. Hell, this isn't even as close as he has been to the young girl.

So many times . . . so many times.

He's been an old man with a cane, stopping at the park to watch kids playing on the monkey bars, on the swing sets. One time, oh about a dozen years ago, he sat next to the little redhead and her father on the park bench as 'pumpkin' was resting in her father's lap.

He has sat in the front row of a couple of her plays in elementary school while her father and grandmother were half a dozen rows back.

He's been on the sidelines, smiling with pride during soccer games, and stood next to her in line as she bought movie tickets with her first boyfriend.

Yeah, it sounds creepy. It sounds like he's stalking her. But really, that's who he is. That's what he does. He stalks people. But for her, for her father, it is for a very different purpose.

So yeah, he has seen her many times before – probably close to thirty or forty during her lifetime – just keeping tabs, just making sure she's okay, just to see his bloodline. But he's never seen her like this before.

Fragile.

Scared.

Broken.

He exits the restroom, glancing her way and the mop stick snaps in his hands like an overgrown toothpick, bringing a startled glare from the older woman who has now entered the room. The woman from his past who doesn't recognize him behind the disguise.

The wig, the large black-rimmed glasses, the fake mustache and realistic fake tattoo on the hand – they all serve their purpose.

He grunts as he tosses the broken prop into the large trash receptacle, nodding toward Martha Rodgers as he makes his exit. No need to stick around. His disguise is solid, he knows, but this is a woman he was once intimate with. No need pushing his luck. He's achieved his goal for this morning's mission. He's satisfied the young woman is recovering – albeit painfully – and he's planted his devices so he can stay on top of things without constantly showing himself. Having done the same in his son's room, he almost cheerfully begins humming again as he leaves the darkened room, his mind now considering one Javier Esposito, and the visit he will make to the NYPD detective.

.

 **A/N:** A lot to set up in this chapter, and the next, before we take that fork in the road. My sincere thanks again to everyone for all of the favorites and follows. It's humbling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Glint – Chapter 5**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Friday Morning – May 27, 2011, 10:15 a.m., in Richard Castle's ICU Room at a New York Hospital**_

.

Richard Castle takes a deep breath, his hands gripping the metal walker in front of him. Detective Kate Beckett stands alongside him, holding on to the tall, thin mobile stand which holds his IV fluid bag along with the small, portable telemetry monitor he was fitted with less than an hour ago. He's taken two steps, and already is poised to back up and fall backward into the relative comfort of his bed.

He holds on to his chest, as gently as he can. He knows there are staples down his chest and stitches in his back. He's sore virtually everywhere between his neck and his hips. The shot in the cemetery entered him through his back, on the right side. There was slight damage to the lung, and definite damage around the heart. His chest still seems on fire from the surgery. Then there are those damn breathing exercises Kate's asshole boyfriend ordered the nurses to inflict upon him, which almost had him ready to just give up completely. Along with the walking regimen he has ordered. Three times a day. Once around the floor each time. All orders from the good doctor.

Josh.

Yeah, life does have its little ironies.

Still, the man _did_ save his life. That has to count for something, right?

He takes another step. Then another. Dr. Davidson – Josh - wants him up and walking today, at least that's what the nurse has told him.

"That's it, Castle," Kate tells him, encouragingly, her free arm around his waist, her other hand gripping the mobile stand with him. "I'm right here with you."

He leans inward, onto her for support. It's a surreal moment as both of them revel in the closeness of the moment. Her thoughts are jumbled and conflicted – a mixture of both guilt from the overall situation and contentment of the moment in particular.

Last night she went home for the first time since the shooting. She showered and she slept in her own bed for about three hours before giving up and coming back here to the hospital just after three this morning. She couldn't sleep. Not while knowing where he is, and how he is. Not while knowing that she is in love with the man. She can finally admit that to herself.

Oh, and knowing that all of this is her fault. At least that is what she continually tells herself.

So she returned to the hospital, to the ICU floor, and rules notwithstanding, her badge – and a stern, no-nonsense glare – got her past the nursing station. She slept in the chair next to Castle's bed for about an hour and a half before he awakened – and she, with him. Josh warned her that he would possibly wake up in the middle of night, and have trouble going back to sleep. This is quite normal, she's been told. But honestly, there is nothing 'normal' about what is happening right now.

" _My boyfriend has just saved the life of the man I am in love with."_

The sheer audacity, the cruelty of the universe is on full display as she considers this notion . . . this revelation.

"Come on, Castle," she urges, wanting him to take another step, then another. The walk is good for her also, after a few hours in the cramped little chair. One foot in front of the other. He's going to make it. He's going to recover. And she will be there every step of the way.

He began drinking clear liquids last night. It was the first time he even tried to take anything into his mouth. They tried some jello, but that didn't work. Then Josh ordered up some putrid broth, but Castle declined, and she could hardly blame him. Josh was happy to learn that the patient sat up last night. He immediately had rewarded Castle with a series of breathing and coughing exercises. Something about reducing the risk of pneumonia or other lung complications. As if getting shot wasn't enough of a complication.

The plan is to move him off the ICU floor tomorrow, but he still has a four or five day stay – minimum – ahead of him here in the hospital.

That gives her four or five days to tell him about Alexis.

The doctors are not sure he is ready for the shock of hearing about his daughter. And by 'the doctors', she means Josh. He doesn't want anything to throw him off. And Dr. Levinson – she thinks that's her name – downstairs concurs for Alexis. Kate thinks it's a bunch of bullshit. She thinks the sooner they both know about the other, the better. The problem is, Castle is asking about his daughter.

And she is – dammit – lying to him. Telling him that she came while he was asleep. And Martha is telling a similar mistruth to young Alexis downstairs. Kate hates it as much as Martha does. Neither is comfortable keeping such . . . familial secrets.

Lies.

But she goes along, for now, wondering how to break the news to him, doctor's suggestions notwithstanding.

Her thoughts are of the young redhead one floor below them as he takes another step, she with him.

"C'mon, Rick," she encourages softly, watching as he struggles. She's never seen him like this, and the stark difference of what she is accustomed to seeing from him reminds her of exactly how strong, how virile this man once was.

And now, just a tiny step is torture for him.

"I . . . I can't . . ."

"Yes, you can," she corrects him, not allowing him to finish the sentence. She knows that he needs to be speaking positive words, thinking positive thoughts.

"But –"

"No buts, Castle," she retorts. "I know this hurts. I know this is hard. But you can do this. You have to do this. You've been making great progress already."

That he is. He was happy to get a few of the tubes taken out this morning, from his chest, from his stomach. Best of all – and worst of all – the catheter came out. That was a joyous – and damn painful moment right there. Still, the idea of getting up to use the restroom on his own – something he has taken for granted since childhood – is something to celebrate now. But the road to recovery isn't going to be easy. The good doctor had not minced words with him on that front.

"Josh . . . Josh said six –"

"Josh said you're on the mend," she tells him, interrupting again. "You're alive, and doing well. Six to eight weeks, I know. I heard him. Castle, you know how quickly two months can fly. This will be over before you know it. We will be finished before you know it."

"We . . . ?" he asks, not sure if he is confused or if his mind is still just fogged from the drugs. The drugs. Yeah, they are good.

"Yes, we," she smiles at him. He can't see her smile. He can't turn to see her. Hell, just putting one foot in front of the other is trying enough. But he can feel her smile. And it pushes him forward. He blinks, and sees the elevator some fifteen steps away. She sees what he is staring at. Yeah, the elevator is a good goal for now. They can turn around from there.

.

 _ **Friday Morning – May 27, 2011, 10:15 a.m., in Alexis Castle's 2**_ _ **nd**_ _ **Floor Room at a New York Hospital**_

.

The morning sun bathes the room in a bright yellow hue as Alexis Castle rolls to her side, staring at the private bathroom in her room. She is squinting, and the sunlight hurts. But she's asked Martha Rodgers to open the blinds, just a little bit. She desperately needs light. The darkness may be necessary, but it's depressing beyond belief.

Her grandmother – as she has been for the past two days – is her constant shadow, walking behind her, alongside her. Always chipper, always half-singing. She is her rock right now. She is her reminder of what awaits outside these walls.

And she is a reminder of the man who – for whatever reason – is not here.

Martha helps her sit up, swinging her feet toward the floor. It is only seven, eight steps tops to get to the bathroom. The young girl reaches for her walker, trying desperately to forget the pain that she all too well knows will accompany each step. She takes a breath, ready to pull herself up onto the walker when the door to her room flies open, and a familiar storm brushes its way inside.

"Baby!" Meredith half yells – too loud, of course – causing her daughter to grab her head in pain.

Undeterred, the beautiful redhead walks straight to her daughter, engulfing her softly, gently. Thank God she instinctively knows enough to be gentle.

Still, the woman is distraught at seeing her daughter like this.

"I'm sorry, Lexi," Meredith coos softly. "I'm so sorry."

"Mom . . . I'm okay, Mom," Alexis manages. "It's good to see you."

She tightens her grip on her mother. Suddenly, the very idea that she is embracing even one of her parents is of great comfort – no matter which one it happens to be.

"How is your father, doing?" Meredith asks. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry."

It's an odd question, Alexis thinks to herself. The wording is odd. The timing is all wrong. _She_ is the one here in the hospital, shot, torn up, the last few days lost to her. Why would her mother be asking about her father? When _she's_ the one broken?

"Fine I guess," Alexis replies, numbly, not thinking about her words.

"You guess?!" Meredith asks, her voice rising again, unfortunately. This time, the older woman doesn't realize her folly, and continues on, her voice rising even louder.

"You guess?! You haven't seen him yet?" she asks, incredulously.

Martha is now making frantic gestures toward Meredith to shut the woman up. But it is too late. Alexis has seen her grandmother's motions. And has caught on to the game.

"What do you mean?" Alexis asks, noting the look of confusion that her mother gives her grandmother. It's almost comical.

"What are you not telling me?" Alexis asks, then clarifies as she glances toward her grandmother. "What is _she_ not telling me?"

"Your . . ." Meredith begins, only to be cut off.

"Meredith!" Martha hisses, trying to stop her ex-daughter-in-law.

"Your father was shot, Alexis," Meredith continues on, ignoring the pleas of the older woman. With those simple words, Martha stumbles, losing her balance. Only the rail of the bed saves her, as she grabs ahold before losing it completely.

"He was shot, like you," Meredith continues. "I got here as soon as I could. As soon as I heard you both were shot, I came right –"

"What?" Alexis screams, instantly regretting the reaction as she grabs her head in pain. The sudden motion is too much as her leg gives in, the pain in her hip too great as she crashes to the floor. The scream from her mother brings the nurses into the room in seconds. They see the young girl writhing on the floor, and all questions are put aside as they quickly drop to the ground to lift her back onto her feet – none to gently, unfortunately.

"What happened in here?" Nurse Tammy asks the room at large, her voice low but her annoyance coming through loud and clear.

"Who are you?" she asks the newest redhead to enter the room?

"Meredith . . . Castle," the ex-wife replies, as she takes her daughter into her arms, away from the two nurses. "I'm her mother," she deadpans, then turns her attention back to her daughter.

"Are you able to walk, Alexis?" Meredith asks, suddenly strengthened, her courage buoyed by the reluctance of the two hospital staff members to further intervene.

"Where is my father?" Alexis asks, her voice firm. It belies the pain she feels, the tears that burn her eyes. It's all the answer her mother needs. She helps the younger Castle fasten her grip on the walker, careful not to pull her too quickly.

"Upstairs," Meredith replies evenly, placing her gaze upon Martha Rodgers. "One floor up on the ICU floor."

"ICU?" Alexis answers, faltering for a moment. Meredith catches her, not allowing her to fall, not allowing her to change her mind.

"How bad?" Alexis asks, as she bravely places one foot in front of the other, pushing the metal support in front of her.

"I don't . . . I'm not sure, baby," her mother replies.

The older woman's voice, from behind them stops their movement toward the door.

"Bad," Martha Rodgers responds – thankful to finally tell her youngest bloodline what is happening upstairs . . . and why she hasn't seen her father.

"He's recovering," she adds quickly, "but he's still in a bad way, Alexis."

She really isn't sure how the youngster will respond to the news, but she can barely suppress a smile as she sees the look of determination paint itself across the young face. Alexis turns away from her, gripping the walker more tightly as she pushes her way through the doorway, Meredith in tow.

"Can you do this?" Meredith asks, seeing the strain on her daughter's face, the beads of sweat that have already formed on her forehead even though they've only taken a handful of steps so far. Her vision is blurred by tears but focused on the elevator doors some twenty feet down the hallway.

A minute and a half later, three determined redheads find themselves inside the elevator, staring at the top row of numbers, watching the third floor light up. Seconds later, the dual elevator doors open. In front of them, walking by, they see a straining Richard Castle, in a hospital gown, with Kate Beckett walking next to him. They are both holding on to a mobile unit, although he seems to be holding on more to her than anything else.

The father turns to the dinging sound of the elevator doors opening, and finds himself face to face with a young woman he knows very well, but can hardly recognize.

Like him, she wears a hospital gown.

She is leaning heavily on the metal walker she pushes, propelling herself out of the elevator. Her head is wrapped in a series of white bandages. She is walking with a pronounced limp.

The fire in her eyes is matched only by the equal intensity he sees from his first ex-wife. His mother has a resigned, almost fearful look about her.

"Pumpkin?" he asks, his voice breaking. "What . . . what happened?"

Kate, for a brief instant, tries to hold onto him, to keep him steady. He's having none of it, as the last two days explode within him. He clutches his chest in pain as he stumbles, falling roughly to his knees, grunting as they take the brunt of his fall to the floor. A nurse, who unbeknownst to him, has been following closely behind is upon them in seconds, keeping him on the ground for a moment while she checks him out.

"Are you okay, Mr. Castle?" he hears the nurse ask. That is, he hears the words. Their meaning doesn't register, however.

Alexis is next to him in seconds, wrapping her arms around the fallen man, herself now painfully on her knees, her tears flowing freely.

"Daddy," she sobs, unable to fathom what has happened to her father, and frustrated beyond words that she cannot remember.

"Pumpkin," he manages a second time, his own tears stinging his eyes. He clutches at his chest, and feels the soft hand – the offending hand – on his shoulder.

"Rick, are you –" Kate begins to ask, but finds her hand brushed away. Her heart sinks.

"Did you know?!" he hisses between painful breaths, glancing up over his shoulder at the detective he has fallen in love with.

"Rick, I –"

"Did . . . you . . . know?!" he repeats, hesitated between each word, no longer looking at Kate Beckett. His focus is singularly upon his daughter now.

Castle, I . . ."

Her hesitation is enough.

"Get out," he commands, pulling his daughter tighter against his now inflamed chest. The pain will go away. But he isn't letting his daughter out of his sight right now.

"Rick, please –"

"Go away!" he repeats, this time more forcefully. His gaze falls upon his mother, who stands just outside the now-closed elevator doors. He realizes in an instant that she, too, knew about this. She, too, kept this from him. His mind – thought not clear and logical – is made up in seconds.

"You can join her," he brusquely tells his mother, breaking two sets of hearts as he accepts a hand from his ex-wife who, with the assistance of the nurse, helps both he and Alexis to their feet.

"Get me out of here," he tells the nurse. "Please," he adds, glancing back toward his room.

"Can you make it over there," he asks his daughter, pointing to his room.

"I'm not leaving you," she replies.

With that, two generations of Castles – and an ex – make their way to his hospital room. The heart-broken detective and crestfallen family matriarch find themselves together, in the elevator, both with red-rimmed eyes staring at the departing trio, along with the nurse who helps Castle. The elevator doors close as Kate catches a janitor bent over his mop and pail, making his rounds as he walks in front of the elevator, humming a tune.

.

 **A/N:** So, I know some of you will think Rick's reaction to be out of character with canon. Perhaps it is. But I also recall how Castle went off, half-cocked, not thinking clearly in canon when Alexis was kidnapped. So I think to find out she's been shot, and this was withheld from him – I think this is one of those soft snapping points for our favorite author/shadower. And, of course, he still has yet to discover that he – and Alexis – were the targets all along.

As always, thanks to everyone reading the story. This sets us up for our stepping off point for the story, which begins next chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Glint – Chapter 6**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Saturday Morning – May 28, 2011, 9:07 a.m., in Richard Castle's ICU Room at a New York Hospital**_

.

"Mr. Castle."

"Mr. Castle."

Richard Castle startles himself awake, blinking away the sleep that has so blissfully cocooned him for the past five or six hours. It has been good to sleep. It was an escape. An escape from the pain. An escape from the betrayal. An escape from the nightmare his life has suddenly become. The death of a friend is never easy.

But what happens when the death of that friend turns out to be the easiest development during this hellish week?

He opens his eyes, turning his head toward the orderly, who has already lifted the railing on his bed, and is adjusting the mobile stand with the heart monitor and IV stand. Castle glances at the clock on the wall, which reads 9:07.

" _Not bad,"_ he thinks to himself, quickly calculating the number of hours he has been asleep. Just as quickly, he is wondering what is happening. He wasn't aware of any tests today. Then again, he hasn't been aware of very much these past few days. He is in for a long recovery, that much he knows for certain.

"What's going on?" Castle asks.

"X-Rays," the radiology technician replies. "Dr. Davidson ordered another round. This shouldn't take too long. Would've brought the mobile unit here, but you'd be five, six down the line for it. Anyway, Doc wants you up and about. So I get to wheel you downstairs to radiology, but you'll get out of bed once we are there."

Castle merely nods his head, grateful that he doesn't have to get out of bed right here and take that damn cardio death march around the floor. Three times a day, he's been told, and once is killer enough, thank you very much.

"Be gentle," Castle jokes, half under his breath.

"No worries, Mr. Castle," the orderly replies with a chuckle. "I'm a safe driver. Been doing this for a while now." With that, the technician drops a group of papers – clearly the ordering paperwork for the pending x-ray procedure – and grabs both the mobile monitor stand and the head of the bed, and begins guiding both toward the door.

Castle smiles, and closes his eyes, deciding to rest, and maybe get another few minutes of shut-eye before they get to radiology. He hears the dinging of the elevator, vaguely hearing the elevator doors as they open. He's already half-dozing by the time he barely registers the not-subtle bump as the bed is pulled into the freight elevator, turned sideways. He smiles to himself as he hears the old Broadway tune the technician hums as the elevator descends.

"Broadway fan?" Castle asks, half awake and half-asleep.

"Definitely," the dark-haired, older man replies. "I've been a fan for a long, long time. Some of the best people I have met in this life have been from the stage," he muses.

Castle opens his eyes as he hears the dinging of one floor, then a second, and then a third. He glances up at the numbers in circles atop the wall near the ceiling, and sees B1 light up. There are no radiology machines in the basement. His already fragile and still-healing heart seems to skip a beat, as a sudden fear overtakes him. Indeed, his heart rate is speeding up, as the orderly now notices on the mobile monitor.

"Easy, Richard," Jackson Hunt tells the novelist. "As you can see, we aren't going for x-rays. But trust me, you are safe with me. Far safer with me than in this hospital."

Castle tries to sit up – and is immediately rewarded with a painful reminder of why he is lying in a hospital bed. He clutches his chest in pain, biting back the stinging tears that so quickly have formed, against his will.

"Lay back down, Richard," Hunt tells him, gently pushing him back into a lying position. "I know you have a lot of questions, and believe me, I have answers for you. But right now I need to keep moving. We're on a tight timetable."

Hunt pushes them off the elevator into the darker basement corridor, and begins moving them quickly – at double-time pace – down the hallway. They make a quick left turn, as Hunt continues to speak to his patient.

"First things first," Hunt continues. "My name is Jackson Hunt. I'm here to save your life."

Knowing that Richard Castle was the target all along in the cemetery, and not knowing who was behind the attempt on his life – and that of his daughter – Hunt has decided to take matters into his own hands. The safest place for Castle, and Alexis – is with him. At least until he can get to the bottom of this. He glances at his watch.

 _9:12_

"Making good time," he mutters aloud, glancing at a still-frightened Castle. Major Terrence Cooper is upstairs on the second floor by now, beginning his portion of this dual extraction with the young redhead. They've done this countless times together, synchronized to one another almost as a second thought. That mindless coordination comes in handy for missions such as this.

"What's going on?" Castle manages, his curiosity finally overcoming the feeling of dread that engulfs him. "Where are you taking me? And why are-"

"Lots of questions, and I promised you answers," Hunt interrupts. "But let's get to the car first. Then we can talk."

Hunt pushes him toward the door to the parking garage, where a wheelchair awaits, courtesy of Hunt's pre-planning.

"Now, here's the hard part," Hunt warns. "We have to get you up, get you into the chair here, and then outside . . . and unfortunately, because of time constraints, my bedside manner is going to be a little rough."

With that, Hunt stops, and quickly pulls the guardrails down, and grabs Castle by the legs.

"Swing with me, Richard," Hunt tells him as he swings his legs around. Just as quickly, he leans in and lifts Castle into a sitting position.

"I know this is too quick," Hunt apologies as Castle winces in pain, his breaths shortened. "Can't be helped," he continues as he grabs the author, one hand on Castle's arm while the other reaches around his back for support.

"Up and at 'em" he tells Castle, ignoring the grunts of pain being uttered.

Richard Castle is on his feet now, as Hunt places the long mobile stand into Castle's hands. They begin to walk. One step. Then another, as Hunt opens the door.

"Step down," he tells him, guiding him along as a large, black Ford Transit commercial van pulls up alongside the two men. The windows are smoked, preventing anyone a visual of the interior. The modified electronic door opens automatically, and Castle sees two long, white gurneys in the rear section.

Hunt guides him quickly into the van, helping him lay down, expertly disconnecting him from the mobile stand. He continues to hum the same tune as he quickly reconnects his patient to the new mobile heart monitor and IV stand set up inside the van. Succumbing to the moment – for now – Castle lies back, eyes closed, and catches his breath, trying desperately to calm his racing heart.

Hunt offers a grunt of satisfaction as he ensures all of the feeds to the monitor are secured, and then turns his attention to the same doorway that he and Castle just exited through. He glances at his watch.

 _9:14_

Still good on time. Cooper should be coming through the doors just about . . . any . . . second . . . now.

On cue, the door swings open, and Hunt allows himself a smile of satisfaction. It is extremely short-lived, as he watches Major Terrance Cooper jogging toward the van.

Alone.

"Well, this isn't good," Hunt remarks as the major climbs in.

"You think?" Cooper replies with disgust.

"What happened?" Hunt asks.

"She's gone," Cooper answers, succinctly.

"What do you mean 'she's gone'?" Hunt asks, with just a hint of menace creeping into his voice.

"Who's gone?" Castle asks, trying to lean to his side to pull himself up – quite unsuccessfully. Regardless, hearing those words "she's gone" sent a tingle down his spine. His stomach has literally exploded with moving bubbles.

"Who's gone?" he repeats.

"Your daughter, Mr. Castle," Cooper replies.

"What do you mean she's gone?" Castle asks, repeating Hunts question as he pulls himself up painfully. He clutches his chest once again. It would almost be funny.

Almost.

"She wasn't there," Cooper replies.

"Was she getting another scan?" Hunt asks. "Restroom? Perhaps she –"

"She was taken, Stone," Cooper tells him sadly. I walked off the elevator on the second floor and the first thing I noticed was the nursing front desk. All three nurses out."

"Out as in –"

"Out as in unconscious," Cooper tells his friend. "All three. Alive but drugged. I immediately ran to the girl's room but she was already gone – bed and all."

"Shit!" Hunt mutters, angrily. "Shit!"

Cooper, of course, is dressed in whites as well. His role was to bring Alexis down here. Like Hunt, he carries fake doctor's orders - in this case - for another CT scan for Alexis.

"Check the video feeds," Cooper reminds him, but Hunt is ahead of him, already moving toward the back of the van, up against the rear. He sits down at a modified mobile desk, grabbing the laptop computer there, and punching in commands. He quickly bangs on the rooftop – a pre-determined signal to the driver to get moving, along with the command he gives.

"Let's get moving!" he orders loudly.

The driver's privacy window of the heavily-modified van slides down, and a voice very familiar to Richard Castle calls out.

"Wait a minute," Kate Beckett argues frantically. "You said we were picking up Castle _and_ Alexis."

"Beckett?" Castle questions, confused. In truth, he is simultaneously upset to see the detective right now, while at the same time relieved. She's a friendly face. A known face. Unlike the two very scary military men who are conversing quickly amongst themselves.

"Detective, I said move!" Hunt orders again. Kate mutters a curse, then turns her attention toward the steering wheel and front windshield as the van peels out quickly as the sliding side door shuts once more. The van accelerates quickly through the garage. Castle finds himself holding on tightly to the left rail, which is somehow connected to the side interior wall of the moving vehicle, keeping the gurney stationary.

Silently, Hunt and Cooper sit next to one another, ignoring the accelerating escape and the groggy patient, eyes fixed on the computer screen.

"Good thing you dropped all of these video feeds throughout the hospital," Cooper mutters.

"Standard op," Hunt replies softly, which draws a nod of the head from Cooper, and then a pointed finger from the black man.

"There, third feed, second row," he tells his friend, who mutters an acknowledgement. They watch as two men are seen rolling Alexis – still in her bed – and seemingly asleep and unmoving – down the hallway on the . . . oh shit . . . top floor.

"Drugged," Cooper remarks, getting a nod of agreement from Hunt.

"Going to the helipad," Hunt remarks, as Cooper immediately pulls a phone from his pants pocket, quickly pressing a few digits. Seconds later, he is barking commands.

"Nightrider, I need a bird in the air, pronto," the major says brusquely. "We've got lost chopper with important cargo."

He glances over at Hunt, who still stares at the screen.

"You didn't put anything on the roof, did you?" Cooper asks. It's not really a question, as he already knows the answer.

"No, dammit," Hunt tells him. "Stupid. Stupid."

"What was the time on that feed?" Cooper asks, pointing back to the computer screen.

"Oh eight twenty," his friend remarks, his face frowning. Both men know what this means.

"They have an hour on us," Hunt remarks, the disappointment clear.

"We still want the bird in the air," Cooper tells him.

"Absolutely," Hunt agrees. "Stick with protocol. See what we can find."

The van accelerates into the street, roughly handling the incline coming out of the garage. She hears Castle grunting in pain, and catches his eye in the driver's rearview mirror – as he stares at her though the open privacy window. The rearview mirror is worthless as a driving aid in the van – which has no rear window – but Kate now sees the reason for the mirror nonetheless. It allows her vision into the back.

"Where is my daughter?" Castle asks the two men, but his eyes never leaving Kate's in the rearview mirror. Her eyes occasionally glance at his as she drives.

"Step on it, Detective," Hunts commands from the back, ignoring the question. "Time to go to Plan B. Keep going to West 20th, then turn right and pull into the parking garage there."

"Where is my daughter?" Castle repeats, now turning his pained gaze at the two men behind him, who continue to now ignore him.

"Nightrider is airborne," Cooper remarks, now starting to move, hunched over in the moving vehicle, which lurches slightly as Kate turns onto West 20th and accelerates toward the parking garage there.

"Third floor," Hunt tells her, and she simply nods her head.

"What is she doing here?" Castle asks, now trying a different tactic. His daughter has been shot. And now she's gone. Evidently kidnapped. The two men behind him seem to be on the right side. And Kate, whatever else she has done – he knows she is a friend.

An estranged friend, yes. But right now, even that is better than the alternative.

"I called her," Hunt replies.

" _Yeah, that question he answers,"_ Castle thinks angrily to himself.

"Why?" Castle asks, glancing again toward the woman in the front seat. She pulls quickly into the parking garage, moving slowly as she approaches the first ramp. The sliding side door opens as she drives and Major Cooper hops out, wordlessly. The door automatically shuts behind him.

"Just us now," Hunt tells them, closing the laptop and moving next to Castle.

"I called Detective Beckett because I needed her," Hunt begins. "There is much you don't know, much you don't realize just yet, Richard. But I needed to get you and Alexis out of there, and away where you both can recover, while I go hunting."

"Hunting?" Castle asks, another shot of fear rushing through him.

"For the people who did this," Hunt explains. "For the people who did this to you and Alexis."

"Where is she?" Castle asks.

"I don't know," Hunt replies, honestly. "But I _will_ find her. _And_ the people who have done this. But while I'm doing . . . what I do, I need Kate watching over you."

"Excuse me?" Castle remarks, not entirely comfortable with where this is going.

"You're going away," Hunt tells him. "And the detective is going with you. I can't risk you getting hurt again. I'm putting you someplace safe. Both of you."

Castle is ready to argue, ready to question. He catches himself, having to take another breath, and shuddering in pain. Deep breaths still hurt right now, and it's clear that – even lying down – this exertion has been far too much. Hunt sees it also in the readout on the digital monitor. He reaches down to the floor, opening a small box, and pulling out a syringe.

Castle – having written enough scenes like this – knows what is coming, and tries to move away from the pending stick in the arm.

Instead, however, Hunt slips the syringe into one of the ports on the IV tubing going into Castle's hand. He plunges the liquid in, and glances at the man on the gurney.

Castle, within seconds, begins to feel the effects, and tries to fight the drowsiness that is now overcoming him.

"Why?" Castle asks, pleadingly. "Why are you doing this? Why do you even care about me?"

Hunt stares at the nervous, frightened man – whose eyes are beginning to close ever so slightly.

"Because I'm your father, Richard."

.

 **A/N:** A slightly different fork in the road from canon. Alexis is still kidnapped, only a year and a half earlier than we saw in season 5 in canon. From here, we go hunting. Castle is going to have to figure out how to deal with Kate, how to deal with his missing daughter, how to deal with recovery from heart surgery . . . and we still have Martha to worry about.

As I'm sure many of you noticed, the FF site is having problems posting reviews. Please know that even though they are not posting, I still get your reviews, and will reply to your comments and questions (if you're logged on and can accept PM's, of course). This has happened before, so I anticipate everyone's reviews will be posting at some time soon (knock on wood). So thanks to all who are reading (and reviewing). I hope you enjoy where we go on this one.

I am hoping to get Chapter 7 posted before the weekend.


	7. Chapter 7

**Glint – Chapter 7**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Saturday Evening – May 28, 2011, 8:49 p.m., at Jim Beckett's remote cabin outside New York City**_

.

He's not sure what has awakened him, but he immediately realizes he isn't in Kansas anymore. Well, he's not in the familiar comfortable surroundings of New York City.

Before his eyes open, he notices two things. First – the noise. It's different. There are no horns honking, there isn't that constant low-level buzz of the city that your ears – and brain – simply get accustomed to. Instead, he hears . . . crickets?

Crickets, or some other insect, but it is a much more high-pitched, almost screaming sound that he is absolutely not used to hearing. He frowns unconsciously as he notices the second thing.

His chest hurts.

It all comes back to him. Roy. The funeral. Kate speaking. The glint of light out of the corner of his eye. He's moving now, jumping . . . his best, albeit it pitiful impersonation of a cornerback leaping to deflect the oncoming football.

Except this football has a bite to it.

He brings his hand to his chest, gently, and feels . . . a button up shirt?

Where did that come from?

His mouth is dry, his tongue sticky and raw before slowly peeking out to lick his lips. He frowns again in confusion, tasting a foreign substance on his lips.

"It's just chap stick, Castle," he hears the feminine voice tell him, the voice soft and soothing. "Strawberry flavor. It's all I had. Your lips were starting to chap . . . crack."

He blinks a few times until Detective Kate Beckett comes into focus.

"Where am I?" he asks.

" _We_ ," she begins, with emphasis on that single word, "are at my father's cabin. Upstate New York. Off the grid.

"Alexis!" he quickly remembers, eyes widening. The heart monitor attached reflects his sudden concern.

"I know," Kate tells him, her voice far too calm for his liking. "We are looking for her. Well, by 'we', I mean the collective 'we'."

She stands, moving toward the window, closes it and pulls the curtain shut. The dampening of the sound of nature from outside is startling.

"I know you have a lot of questions, Castle," she continues, "and I will do my best to answer all of them. I promise. But let me start out by telling you what I know – and we can fill in the gaps from there. Deal?"

He stares at her for a couple of seconds, and in this brief instant, she is almost thankful that he is incapacitated, unable to get up and bolt. Because she knows that is exactly what he would do. Exactly what he is thinking right at this moment. The last place he wants to be is here. With her.

She hands him a glass of water, a plastic lid covering the top with a straw poking out. He takes a couple of greedy sips before she gently pulls it away from him.

"Slowly, Rick," she tells him, and for a moment their eyes just . . . meet. He breaks the impasse, looking away toward the closed window as she slowly moves the straw back towards his lips. He takes another sip, this time shorter, bringing a nod of satisfaction from the detective.

"We are at my father's cabin, as I said," she begins. "We are not alone. Meet Diane," she tells him, pointing to the young woman sitting against the wall opposite them, next to the bedroom door.

"Diane is a . . . medical operative for the CIA," Kate continues. "Your . . . your father assigned her here to look after you medically . . . to make sure you are making a good recovery."

She pauses here, glancing at the woman once more, before continuing.

"And to help out in case anyone comes looking for you."

"Alexis –"

"I'm getting to that," Kate interrupts, and he pouts – not the flirty, kidding-type of pout she has come to expect and enjoy from the novelist. This is a genuine, I'm-pissed-as-hell look he internalizes. He wants out of here. We wants to search for his daughter. He is beside himself. But she knows that he needs to heal. Anyway, going out now, healthy or otherwise, will likely only get him killed.

She ignores the look, moving forward.

"Your father . . . Hunt . . . he showed up at my apartment last night," she continues, now leaning back in her chair, but still just a couple of feet away from his face.

"He showed up at my apartment. _At my door_ , Castle. I guess I'm easy enough to find if someone wants to find me, but he showed up at my door. Just walked in. Didn't bother to knock. Introduced himself as your father."

"You're kidding, right," Castle intones. It's all too unbelievable, and as a writer, he lives by the code that if it seems too far-fetched, too unbelievable, it probably isn't quite how it is being presented.

"I don't have time to kid, Castle," she counters. "Alexis is missing, you're violating every protocol for someone on the mend from a gunshot and heart surgery, and I . . . I realize that . . ."

She stops herself from going there. Not yet. She changes tactics.

"Anyway, your father showed up. Introduced himself. He told me that –"

"Beckett," he interrupts, his voice soft, his voice raspy. "You know me. You know my background. Neither of us have stellar stories about our parents."

He gazes at the glass of water in her hand.

"I'm sorry," she quickly apologizes, bringing the cool liquid back within his reach. His bed is at a slight incline, allowing him to reach for the glass and now hold it himself.

"Easy," she reminds him, and he nods in compliance without thinking, taking short, slow sips before continuing.

"Neither of us have Hallmark backgrounds when it comes to parents. My dad? Never met him. He left before I was even born. Mom wouldn't talk much about him. Your mom? Well, we know that story. So my dad, showing up out of nowhere, professing to be my father – really? Nothing seemed unusual about that to you? How do you know he was telling you the truth? How do you know you can trust –"

"Castle, he was telling the truth," she interrupts again. "He told –"

"My father is my . . . my albatross," he tells her, ignoring her words. "Much like your mother's death is yours. So why would you believe a total stranger who shows up at your doorstep, telling you he is my father?" he asks, and now he is getting out of breath. But he pushes on.

"Why would you-"

"Drink!" she orders, her gaze firm now, staring at the glass that he holds firm in his hand as she continues.

"I know he's telling the truth because he showed up at my apartment with Martha. A very pale, very scattered version of your mother."

He pauses for a few seconds, then looks away.

"Mother . . . scattered . . . and that's unusual?" he mutters under his breath.

She'd laugh if things weren't so dire, so disconnected between them right now. And though she'd rather have the rest of this conversation in private, Nurse – slash – medical operative Francis over there was given strict instructions by Hunt. Keep them in sight at all times.

"Martha confirmed everything," Kate tells him, thinking back to last night's out-of-body experience with Martha Hunt and her long-lost fling with unexpected benefits.

For a few seconds, she is quiet. She bites her lower lip, her gaze far away. He knows this look. He's seen it enough. She has something to say – something she _should_ say – but is working through it, trying to decide what to say, how to say it.

Watching her like this . . . it used to be cute. Tonight . . . not so much.

"Just say it, Beckett," he manages. She smiles sadly.

"You know me too well," she chuckles softly.

"I used to think I did," he tells her. It's a cold statement that comes out far more harshly than he intends, but right now, he doesn't care.

She stares at him for a moment, then makes up her mind.

"There is so much more you don't know yet," she tells him, as she begins to consider – and recount – last night's discussion with one Jackson Hunt.

.

 _ **The Previous Night / Friday Evening – May 27, 2011, 9:07 p.m., at Kate Beckett's Apartment**_

.

"So you're really his father," Kate Beckett questions, no longer looking at the silver-haired stranger in her home. No, instead, her eyes are on Martha Rodgers, searching for any tale-tell sign that she is being coerced into this very unfunny ruse. Finding none, finding only a genuine verification from the woman's eyes, she turns her attention back to the intruder.

"Why now?" she asks the man. "I'm not asking why you are here in town, here checking on him. I get that. He was shot. You want to see him, you want to make sure he is okay. But why make your identity known now? To what gain?"

"My son is in danger," Hunt tells her affably, not offering anything more. He says it so casually, it's as if it is the most natural declaration in the world.

"Your son is being treated by one of this country's best doctors," Kate argues. "The staff back there knows their stuff. He's got a long road ahead of him, I admit, but he's more or less out of the –"

"Richard isn't _'out of anything'_ right now, Detective," Hunt replies evenly. "I've got to get him out of there, and he won't make it outside, running around like we both know he would. He is still a good two months away from being healed. Six weeks if his is lucky."

"All the reason for him to stay put in the hospital, where –"

"That shot wasn't meant for you, Detective Beckett," he tells her, interrupting her argument. She stares at him blankly for a few seconds, her heart now pounding in her chest.

" _He knows,"_ she thinks to herself. _"How?"_

"The shot," he continues, "that put my son in the hospital . . . it was meant for him. He was the target. Not you," Hunt repeats. "So even if Richard didn't make that horrible decision to potentially orphan his daughter – right in front of her, mind you – by jumping in front of you . . . he would have been shot anyway. He was the target all along. He and my granddaughter."

Without warning, Jackson Hunt pulls a long, silenced weapon from his shoulder holster, hidden inside his knock-off bomber jacket. He points the weapon menacingly at the detective, drawing the near-hysterical ire from the mother of his son.

"Jackson!" Martha wails, moving toward Kate, moving towards the man. "What on earth are you doing?"

Hunt, however, ignores the older family matriarch, instead, his eyes boring deeply into Kate Beckett.

"But I am starting to believe that none of this is news _to you_ , Detective. I have to wonder . . . why do you not seem surprised by what I just said?" he growls, his voice now lower, with a clear threat of danger present.

"As far as the world knows, someone tried to shoot you, and my son jumped in front of you. But I've just told you that he was the target all along, and you didn't react. At all. I have heard you're somewhat unflappable, but this . . . this is distant, even for someone like you. Unless you already knew this."

Martha – her head swiveling between the two sudden protagonists – turns to the detective.

"Detective Beckett . . . Kate?" she asks, eyes pleading. "Is this true? Did you know? You didn't –"

"Martha . . ." Kate begins, her eyes barely starting to mist. It's enough.

Kate Beckett recoils against the stinging, unexpected slap from the older woman, her hand instinctively clutching her now-reddening cheek. For almost three years now, Detective Kate Beckett has been treated to the flamboyant acting skills of one Martha Rodgers. Yet she knows, tonight, this is no act. The quivering lip on the older woman, the tears that threaten to spill over, the complete loss of the ability to speak . . .

It's all too real.

Kate turns from the woman she has considered a friend . . . or at least friendly. She comes face to face with the same silenced weapon, now pointed at her head.

"I'm going to ask you two questions, Detective," Hunt tells her. "They are simple questions. I am a simple man. It is important that you tell me the truth. And let me be very clear . . . your status as a NYPD detective means nothing to me. I would just as soon take you out as empty the trash over there. So be very careful with your answer."

To make his point even more clear, he takes a step toward Kate, bringing the weapon closer with him.

"My son is fighting for his life. He was intentionally shot. He was the target, not you. And you already knew this information. So," he asks, waving the gun in tiny circles for emphasis. "My questions are as follows: How did you know? How did you know my son was the original target? And having that information, knowing this – how could you allow him to show up at the cemetery and get shot?"

He takes a few steps back, and sits on the arm of the sofa in the living room, now standing some ten feet from the detective and Martha Rodgers, allowing the weapon to rest on his lap.

"I'm waiting, Detective," he reminds her when a flushing sound from the hallway is heard. Suddenly, the bathroom door from the hallway opens. Out walks Major Terrance Cooper, wearing similar garb as his partner. Cooper takes in scene in front of him:

Hunt with a weapon pointed at the detective.

The detective with a dumbfounded and angry look on her face over this second unexpected intrusion. From inside her home, no less.

The look of pure horror on the face of Martha Rodgers.

"How . . . how did you get in here?" Kate asks. It's a stupid question, in hindsight, but it's the first that streams out of her mouth.

Cooper glances at Hunt – the two men smirk, initially, before breaking out into mutually menacing chuckles.

"She's kidding, right?" Cooper remarks.

"Not sure how smart she really is," Hunt tells him. "We're getting ready to find out."

Hunt turns his attention back to Kate, who is finally finding her grounding with this home invasion. She walks away from the men, to the kitchen. She takes out a glass tumbler, and pours herself a few ounces of whiskey. She walks back to the sofa, and sits down, across from Hunt.

The CIA man cannot suppress a smile of admiration. She's got stones this one. He is hoping he won't have to kill her. But it is her choice.

"Answer my question, Detective," he continues. "Because from my vantage point, you look complicit. From my point of view, perhaps you knew my son was the target because you were a part of the attempt on his life. Perhaps you set him up. Perhaps you made sure that –"

"Are you going to shut up, or keep talking," Kate interrupts, giving the man in black a glimpse of the Beckett glare that has unnerved more than one perp in the interrogation room. He cannot help but be impressed. "Because I don't have all night."

She knows . . . okay, she suspects the background of these two nighttime visitors. They belong to one of the alphabet clubs – her money is on the CIA. She needs to regain her footing in this standoff.

"By all means, go ahead," Hunt smiles. It's not a pretty smile. It reminds her more of a large snake, his eyes taking everything in around him. The show of teeth is not a friendly gesture. It's a warning. Still, he puts the weapon away, back in the shoulder holster. Kate smiles inwardly.

"I did not know that Rick was the target until the afternoon he was shot – when I was at the hospital. At that time I believed I was the target. Rick had jumped in front of me . . . taking a bullet for me."

She pauses for a moment, staring at both men, before continuing.

"While I was waiting for Castle to get out of surgery, I received a phone call. The man identified himself as Mr. Smith. He told me that he was a friend of Roy Montgomery. He told me that Roy had kept information on certain people who had killed my mother, and that Roy had been sitting on this information for years – protecting me. Supposedly he made a deal with these people – using this information to keep these people away from me."

"For all the good it did _him_ ," Cooper remarks, making himself at home as he walks to the kitchen, pointing to a cabinet.

"Glasses in here?" he asks.

"Yes . . . please feel free," Kate remarks sarcastically, before turning back to Hunt and continuing.

"Anyway, Mr. Smith told me that the information that Roy had – the evidence that Roy kept all of those years that was protecting me – that information was now in his possession. He told me that he had made a deal with these people – whoever they are – so that now they would stay clear of me. He told me I was safe – but only as long as I agreed to back off. Only as long as I agreed to stop looking into my mother's murder."

Kate takes a long swig of the whiskey, leaving only another swallow left in the small tumbler.

"I argued that I was still alive, that their attempt on my life had failed – that I was still standing. He laughed at me. He told me that I was alive only because I wasn't the original target. The original target was Rick. And Alexis."

She hears Martha's gasp, and as she turns toward the woman to apologize, she sees the unconscious woman fall to the floor.

She's up in an instant, at the older woman's side.

"Get me a wet cloth!" Kate yells over at Cooper. The military man smoothly moves from the kitchen to the living room with a cold cloth he has just wet that was hanging on the oven rail. Kate places the cloth across Martha's forehead, moving the woman's legs together. She strokes the redhead's face gently, before Hunt's voice brings her out of the moment.

"Martha will be fine, Detective," he tells her. "You, I'm not so sure about. And here's my problem."

He uses his forefinger and thumb to squeeze the bridge of his nose, staring at the detective.

"You said you had a phone call, correct?" he asks.

"Yes," Kate replies, still focused on Martha.

"A Mr. Smith?"

"Yes, that was his name," Kate agrees.

"Smith? Seriously?"

He takes the weapon from the holster again, now talking to his partner who stands next to the still-kneeling Kate Beckett.

"Kind of an unoriginal name, Coop, don't you think?"

"No inspiration. Not much imagination if you're going to lie," Cooper agrees.

"I'm not lying!" Kate bellows angrily, now growing tired of the game. "Look, I don't know what your game is, what tree you're climbing, but –"

"Here's what's wrong with your story, Detective," Hunt interrupts. "This Smith – if that is his name – no scratch that – this _story_ of yours has holes as big as my friend's big ass over there."

The comment draw laughter from both men, clearly a running joke between the two.

"I don't –"

He interrupts the detective once again, now rising to his feet, his weapon angled toward the floor.

"I want you to think about your story, Detective. I want you to step back, it's been a long couple of days, I grant you. But step away. You're a smart woman. Think about this."

The silver-haired man walks toward Kate, surprising her as he extends his hand to her, bringing her to her feet.

"This Smith – he calls you and tells you that Mr. Montgomery had evidence against persons unseen."

He pauses, and she realizes he is waiting for her confirmation. She nods her head.

"This Smith – he tells you that the evidence Mr. Montgomery had is now in his possession."

"Yes, that's true," Kate agrees.

"This Smith – he tells you that this evidence will keep these persons unseen away from you."

Kate nods again, wondering where this line of thinking is going.

"This Smith – he then tells you that the deal – whatever this deal is – to keep you safe is back in place . . . but only so long as you stay away from your mother's case. Did I get that right?"

"Yes," Kate acknowledges. "I told you this, now you're repeated it back to me."

"Indeed," Hunt remarks. "So I have one question."

"Me, too," Cooper adds, as he slowly and gently lifts the still form of Martha Rodgers off the floor and moves her to the sofa just vacated by Kate and Hunt.

"If Smith has the evidence that will hurt these persons unseen . . . why does he need your agreement to back away as a condition of keeping you safe?" Hunt asks.

"If the evidence really exists, it should be sufficient to keep these guys off your butt," Major Cooper agrees. "If this Smith guy has the evidence, then he has the leverage. These – what did you call them, Stone? These _'persons unseen'_ have no upside to threaten someone who has evidence against them."

"So my problem, Detective, is this," Hunt continues. "Which one of you is lying? Are _you_ lying about what Smith said – or hell, did you just make this entire story up?"

"Or," Cooper remarks, finishing his partner's thought process. "Or did this Smith lie to you about the evidence itself."

"Which is where I'm betting my money," Hunt agrees, nodding his head in confirmation. "If you're not lying, then you've been bamboozled. You've been fooled by a faceless man with an implausible and hastily-thought out lie. Which means you aren't as smart as I thought you might be."

"Now wait a minute," Kate retorts angrily, and the confusion in her face tells the two men she is truly authentic in her reaction. Hunt puts the weapon away again – this time for good.

"He doesn't have the evidence," Hunt tells her. "He is searching for the evidence, and simply wanted to know if you have it. You're going to tell me that for years, your former captain had evidence against these people, and now, after all these years, they've decided to come against you – evidence be damned? No, he was testing you. He wanted to know if you have it. He wanted to know if Mr. Montgomery gave the evidence to you."

"Or if you even knew of its existence," Cooper adds. "Either way, if this Smith guy actually has something on these people behind your mother's death . . . if it really is damning evidence, then he holds all the cards. Just like your old boss held all of the cards. But if that's true, why all the cloak and dagger shenanigans about needing you to back away? If the evidence is there, then the deal is that they stay away from you. Not the other way around."

"It smells," Hunt concludes, now sitting down on the sofa next to the older woman who is very slightly beginning to stir. He gives Kate a long stare, as he continues.

"You know what this means," Hunt tells Cooper, who nods in agreement.

"It means _someone_ has this supposed evidence, but not this Mr. Smith," Hunt tells the detective. "Which means this 'Mr. Smith' of yours isn't concerned with keeping you, or my son, safe. He actually works for these 'persons unseen'."

"And that's why we have to find Alexis," Cooper tells them both.

"So the phone call . . . him calling me . . ." Kate lets the sentence hang, unfinished.

"Smith is in cohorts with whoever is behind all of this," Hunt tells her. "And his call to you was just his way of keeping tabs on you."

"Which means he will be calling me again," Kate muses aloud, drawing nods of agreement from both men, as Martha utters a low moan as she comes around.


	8. Chapter 8

**Glint – Chapter 8**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Saturday Evening – May 28, 2011, 8:55 p.m., at Jim Beckett's remote cabin outside New York City**_

.

Richard Castle is upset. Okay, scratch that, it is safe to say the man is downright pissed. He is staring at the woman . . . _through_ the woman he thought he knew very well, the woman he has openly chased for the past . . . what is it . . . three years now. He's just listened to her recount her interaction with his father last night, listening to her weave a quite unbelievable story.

His father.

As if things weren't bad enough. He's never known his father. It was tough growing up without a father, especially with a mother with . . . eclectic tendencies. Years ago, he finally came to terms with this. Put it behind him. Now it comes rearing back as he finds out his father is alive, and he is, by all accounts, a very, very dangerous man.

And that's the capper on a crappy week, for certain.

He's been shot, trying to save Detective Kate Beckett. In the confusion, his own daughter has been shot as well. And injured badly.

He's been kidnapped, albeit for his own safety, he is being told. His daughter? Kidnapped and taken to only God knows where.

Only, it turns out he wasn't shot trying to save the detective, as he believed. He was just shot, period. He was the target all along. And his daughter was a target also.

He's listened to Kate's explanation. He's listened to her reasons, her excuses. He's listened to her story from last night – and he's still can't shake a few thoughts.

One, she didn't tell him Alexis was shot. He had to find that out himself. Days later. Apparently, it was the doctor's decision. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care. All he knows is that his daughter is gone. He didn't even get a chance to see his pumpkin, and now she is shot, recovering from a concussion – and alone, as far as family and loved ones are concerned. Whereas he has the detective, a CIA medical operative, his father, and who knows who else watching him . . . his daughter has absolutely no one.

The very thought of Alexis alone, likely frightened, hurting physically . . . it's almost too much.

Two, he has found out that he was the target all along. He and Alexis. And he wonders – he _can't help but_ wonder – exactly how long Kate Beckett would have kept _this_ secret from him. When would she has shared that little nugget?

 _Would_ she have _ever_ shared that secret?

Suddenly, the woman he was willing to sacrifice himself for – without a second thought – now he doesn't trust the woman, and can barely look at her. But that's not the worst part.

The worst part?

More than anything, he is upset with himself. Because to his way of thinking, he has no one to blame but himself for his current predicament. He now realizes this misguided puppy love campaign with Kate Beckett has claimed casualties he would never have imagined. It has put his family into the crosshairs of dangerous people. People who have now proven to have no qualms about coming after him – or his family.

And according to Kate, the reason they have come after him, after Alexis, is because they – whoever _they_ are – have decided that Kate doesn't care about her own life, but maybe she will care about theirs.

He wonders if their gamble was accurate.

So he stares . . . no, make that glares at the detective, angry with her, angry with himself, angry that he has shadowed her, angry that the only reason this has happened is because he continued, to encourage her to find her mother's killers, despite her initial warnings during that first year.

" _Where is my baby girl?"_ he wonders to himself, wiping his brow, as he breaks the standoff with the detective as another thought hits him.

"Where is my mother?" he asks. If he's been shot, if they've come after Alexis, then Martha is far from safe.

"She is safe, Castle," Kate tells him, still sitting next to his bed. "Your father put her into protective custody this morning. Said that he is going to take advantage of her acting skills. He's disguised her as a British informant down at Langley. She's under protection there."

"You can't be serious," he muses aloud, unable to even fathom his mother surrounded by professional spies.

" _She's probably in heaven,"_ he thinks to himself, as he listens to the detective.

"She said it will give her a chance to put her British accent to use," Kate adds, trying desperately to add some levity to the situation. Seeing no reaction from Castle, she continues, searching again for some kind of opening, some kind of opportunity to give them some normalcy.

"Dad has been taken somewhere down in Florida," she continues. "Your father wouldn't tell me anything else . . . he told me it was better if I don't know. But he promised me that it is somewhere no one would consider looking."

Castle considers this for a moment, taking a deep breath, wincing as he does.

"So, both our parents . . . well, my mother and your father . . . are both safe," he says aloud, nodding. But before she can take this as a victory, he brings reality back to the forefront.

"But Alexis is gone . . . and we don't know where," he grumbles. "And I'm stuck here, when I need to be out there –"

"Your father is looking for her, Castle," Kate tells him, now standing and moving toward the small kitchen to re-fill his glass. "He has access to CIA resources you and I cannot imagine. He will find her."

"So my dad . . . he's a spy," Castle muses, ignoring her last words. He offers a glance at Nurse Diane Francis, who now stands, placing her book down.

"And I'm one of those resources, Mr. Castle, the tall blonde remarks. She pulls herself up to her full, six-foot height. Were he standing, he would only have a couple of inches on the woman. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which only highlights her steel blue-gray eyes that seem to take in everything around her.

"The detective is correct. Agent Stone . . . your father will find your daughter, Mr. Castle. Of that I have no doubt. You, however, need to be right here, where you are. At least for a while. And being here, it is time for you to take a walk," Nurse Francis continues. "Three times a day, minimum, and you've slept most of today away."

"I think being drugged had something to do with that," Castle argues, but he does so as he carefully and painfully swings his legs around to get out of the bed. Kate moves to help him, but he waves her off – in so many ways.

"I've got it," he tells her, looking down, not making eye contact. The tall blonde however, smoothly moves between the two, lowering herself ever so slightly underneath Castle's armpit, providing support for him. Kate watches the scene unfold, and finds herself fighting back tears of anger, of sadness, of pure frustration as Castle and the CIA woman shuffle away from her, toward the hallway.

"That's good, Mr. Castle," she hears the blonde tell him. "You're doing well. We will have you up and out of here in no time. But I need you to do what I say. Deal?"

"Deal," she hears the man she loves agree, and her heart – and her spirit – break just a little more as she walks out the front door and into the relative safety of the woods, putting as much distance between herself and the scene behind her.

.

 _ **An hour ago, Still Saturday Evening – May 28, 2011, 7:55 p.m., off New Rochelle in Long Island Sound**_

.

Her entire world is rocking, bobbing . . . up and down, back and forth. Alexis Castle awakens slowly. She tries to shake the cobwebs out of her head, and immediately regrets the decision as the headaches return, full force. More than that, it is a fear that grips her chest and squeezes tightly. Her brain won't slow down, won't stop spinning.

" _Not good . . . I'm getting worse,"_ she thinks to herself, realizing she has no idea where she is. Nothing looks familiar. She smacks her tongue a few times, frowning at the bitter taste the drug has left. She blinks a few times, trying to get her bearings, and within a few seconds, she recognizes the rocking motion for what it is.

" _I'm . . . on a boat?"_ she realizes. That in itself offers no comfort whatsoever. If she is on a boat, then she can be almost anywhere. She stands, and half staggers with the motion. Her movement kicks off another round of pinball machine inside her head. It also activates a motion detector hidden in the wall, which automatically starts a live streaming video feed. She hears – then sees the shrouded figure on the monitor mounted on the wall, while a distorted voice begins speaking to her.

"Hello, Alexis," the very creepy voice begins. "Don't bother trying to escape. You're more than two miles off shore. And I see everything."

With a certain gruesome horror movie now channeling totally unwanted images in her mind, conjuring up the worst of possibilities, Alexis finds herself – against her will and better judgement – completely caught up in the distorted voice and figure on the monitor.

"To prove my point," the voice continues, "please go topside. Do it now."

The young redhead complies, something telling her not to take any chances with the menacing voice. As she walks up the short steps, she immediately notices the sun going down to the west, behind her toward the shore, which – as promised – appears to be a couple of miles away. Still, the light of sunset bothers her.

A second monitor lights up as she comes topside, with the same shrouded figure and distorted voice.

"Good girl," the voice tells her. "Now, look to the starboard side, out into the water. To your right, girl out into the ocean away from the shoreline."

Those last few words tells her that this unknown person can – indeed – see her. Its information she files away, as she starts considering her unlikely escape options. As commanded, she looks out to the right, toward the open water of the ocean.

She sees it. Floating about two hundred yards out toward the open ocean, she sees a sudden, sharp glint in the distance. The monitor above her explodes as the high velocity bullet smashes into it. The shattering glass sprays the deck at her feet, launching her backwards. Less than a second later, she hears the familiar crack of a rifle, and suddenly she is back in the cemetery. Running toward her father. She sees the widening blotch of blood as he falls to the ground. She feels the sudden stabbing pain in her own hip and thudding crack on her head as she hits the tombstone. The memories flood her unwelcomingly.

She remembers it all!

Alexis quickly drops to the deck floor, whimpering as the sudden movement causes her head to throb even more, matched only by the knifing pain in her hip. Grabbing the her hip and holding tight, she crawls along the floor of the deck, cutting her hands on the shards of glass, cutting her knees, quickly and mindlessly making her way back down below. She is shaking, crying, and frightened beyond belief.

The voice returns. Haunting her with laugher.

"Ah, there you are. You know what it is like to be shot, don't you Alexis?" the voice teases. "Now you know something else. I can reach you at any time. For all you know, I may have planted a bomb on board this boat. I may have mined the area surrounding you where you are anchored. Or perhaps I have done none of these things. I will let you ponder such tidings. So bide your time, do what I tell you, and perhaps you will get out of this alive. Or perhaps not. I'll be honest, girl, I haven't decided yet."

The distorted snickering is unnerving, and Alexis Castle closes her eyes, now refusing to look at the monitor, refusing to acknowledge her kidnapper, trying to drown out the shrouded figure.

"But for now," her captor continues, "there is ample food down here. Enough for you to survive. For a while. If you follow instructions. I don't think you are an Olympic caliber swimmer, so mines or not, I'm not too worried about you going overboard. Not with that concussion and bum hip."

She drops in the corner, listening to the voice chuckle for a few more seconds before disappearing in a round of static. There she sits, trembling and rapidly losing hope as she considers the proficiency of a marksman who can hit a target from so far away . . . while bobbing on the ocean.

She glances around her. No phone. No radio. No way of communicating with anyone. She closes her eyes, letting one tear drop, then another, and another, allowing the lulling motion of the boat to rock calm her nerves as she begins to consider her options.

" _There's always a way,"_ she tells herself. She's read enough of her father's books. Yeah, their fiction, but as she knows from close-hand experience, they are often based on factual events. Sometimes, like his recent series, they are inspired by a person . . . and that person's exploits.

"There's always a way," she repeats out loud, as she wills herself up, pulling herself from the floor, and begins to take in her surroundings.


	9. Chapter 9

**Glint – Chapter 9**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Sunday Morning – May 29, 2011, 9:04 a.m., at a small diner in New York City**_

.

The sound and smell of something burning accompanies the smoke that billows from the kitchen to the back part of the small diner. Javier Esposito turns his head toward the patrons in the back, holding back a chuckle. He can barely make out the cook through the gap window into the kitchen as a cacophony of steam and yelling serenade the small establishment.

"Marco's burned something already," he muses aloud, glancing at his watch. It is barely 9 o'clock.

"That's early, even for him," Detective Kevin Ryan smiles in agreement. Marco's reputation is well known in these parts, so no one in the early crowd seems bothered, there is no cry of alarm or surprise. The early morning pre-church crowd is settling in for a quick bite at the popular diner, and it is clear from their reaction – or lack thereof – that no one is concerned. Only a few knowing smiles, which only seems to wet appetites even more. A few more smiles are seen as a stream of curses from the kitchen can be heard by those at the back tables.

The two 12th Precinct detectives glance around warily. They have been waiting for a nameless, faceless man to join them for the past ten minutes. He said 9 o'clock sharp if they wanted to find out what's going on with Kate and Castle. It sounded cryptic enough, especially given that neither detective knew that anything new _was_ going on with their favorite detective and precinct tagalong – outside of the events from the funeral, of course.

So when Javier called Kate last night after hanging up with the stranger, only to hear the same faceless voice chuckling back, he realized that the bastard had Kate's phone. And that meant something different was, indeed, happening.

So yeah, this stranger knows what's _'going on'_ with Kate and Castle, and that is something that the two good friends and partners aim to find out, pronto.

Detective Ryan looks around, seeing no one suspicious – as if either of them would know. He glances toward the front door, which jingles as it opens and a tall man in a dark suit walks in, eyeing the joint. Both detectives are immediately on edge, wondering if this is their mystery man. The concerns ease quickly as the stranger suddenly smiles brightly, and quickly walks past their table to a four-top in the middle of the place, where a waiting brunette happily stands and throws herself into a familiar hug with the stranger.

Glancing around again, Ryan is the first to speak again.

"You sure he said nine –"

"You know I'm sure, bro" Esposito interrupts, clearly losing his patience. "He told me to grab you, and meet him here at nine if we wanted to see Kate and Castle again."

"He could be anyone . . . anywhere," Ryan adds, half talking to himself. "Hell, he could be across the street looking at us through a sniper scope, from one of those building," he continues, nodding his head across the street.

"Jeez, Kevin, don't throw that out there, man," Esposito warns angrily. "We have enough problems as it is without –"

"Good morning, gentlemen," the voice from the table beside them joins into the conversation. "I appreciate you being prompt."

Esposito and Ryan turn to take in the silver-haired man, with the penetrating eyes and dangerous smile.

"Bastard's been here all along," Ryan mutters aloud.

"Indeed," Jackson Hunt tells them. "Habit of the trade. Keeps me alive."

He stands and smoothly moves the few steps to their table from where he has been sitting. He takes the empty chair at the table, between both men. He doesn't extend a hand to shake. Neither do the detectives.

"My name is Jackson Hunt," the CIA man begins. "I –"

"What have you done with Beckett?" Esposito interrupts. "You've taken her phone, so we know you have her. You wanted me to know that, otherwise you wouldn't have answered her phone. So talk. What –"

"I am trying," Hunt offers patiently with what the two men will come to learn is a trademark and very bothersome smirk. "I seem to be interrupted, however. If I may?"

The pause is slight, as Esposito frowns, folding his arms and leaning back into his chair. Appeased, the spy continues.

"Again, my name is Jackson Hunt," he repeats. "I work for the government. I am Richard Castle's father."

He lets that bombshell settle on the detectives, who cannot hide their wide-eyed surprise.

" _No poker players here,"_ Hunt smiles to himself as he continues.

"I tell you this so that you will believe what I am about to share with you. We don't have much time, so I will be short. Here is what you believe has happened over the past four days. Your captain was laid to rest, and during the ceremony, an attempt was made on your detective's life. My son foolishly tried to intercept the bullet meant for her, and ended up shot himself. His daughter – my granddaughter – rushed to see if her father was okay, and was shot herself. You, Detective Esposito, by then were on your way toward the sound of the shots, and permanently apprehended the suspect. Nice work on your part for that, by the way."

Something about how he says this last sentence tells the two detectives at the table that he is being genuine. That he truly admires the work Javier Esposito performed at the cemetery. But before either can react, Ryan recalls the words that began this summary of events.

" _Here is what you believe happened over the past four days,"_ he had said.

"What do you mean this is what we _think_ happened," Ryan asks. "We were there, as you know. We saw it all, Javi took out the shooter. It happened exactly as you –"

"The truth, however," Hunt interrupts, nonplussed, "is that the shooter's target was my son. Richard evidently saw the flash or glint from the scope, figured what he thought was happening and immediately went to shield the detective. A decision I will certainly discuss with him at the right time. The truth, however, as I said, is that Richard was the target all along. Along with my granddaughter. Someone has upped the ante in their little war with your detective, gentlemen, and my family has been pulled into the crossfire. Intentionally."

"How do you know this?" Esposito asks, tapping his forefinger on the table nervously. He does not like where this is going. If whoever Kate is after had decided to turn their sights on Kate's friends or family – then that doesn't bode well for Lanie. Hell, it doesn't bode well for either detective sitting at the table with this stranger.

"I know this, because the man you shot, the man who shot my son, was an ex-Special Ops man . . . like yourself, detective."

Hunt smiles at the realization on Javier Esposito's face that the stranger has done his homework thoroughly, and knows about Javier's past.

" _Nope, not a poker player at all,"_ Hunt now smiles openly.

"This assassin – although I do not know who he was working for – I do know his reputation. He never misses. And when I say never, I mean never. Not even this past Wednesday morning."

He allows that second bombshell to settle at the table, taking the third glass of water that he has brought from his own original table and swallowing a long stream of water before continuing.

"As he does not miss, and certainly not twice, especially when two of his supposed targets were on the ground already – it is clear that both of his shots hit their intended targets. This, however, is no mere speculation on my part. It was confirmed to your detective in a phone call she received while at the hospital Wednesday afternoon after the shooting."

"Get out of here!" Esposito warns, frown deepening. It's almost comical for the silver-haired stranger.

"So I see she did not share that information with either of you, either," Hunt nods appreciatively. Truthfully, he has not decided whether Detective Kate Beckett should be admonished or admired for her secrecy. His own life, after all, is one of secrets, of subterfuge, of withholdings. He idly wonders, not for the first time this week, if the woman is in the wrong profession.

"No she didn't," an extremely wary Kevin Ryan answers. He doesn't like where this is going either. Both men know the secrets that Beckett is capable of carrying. More, both men have seen, first hand, how her secret war has been piling up casualties over the past two years.

"No matter," Hunt remarks. "I'm sure she has her reasons," he adds cryptically. Seeing the men's obvious displeasure, he softens his tone.

"As I said, I work for the government. I am . . . comfortable with secrets."

"I don't suppose you will share with us which three-letter branch you're referring to," Ryan asks.

"You suppose correctly," Hunt chuckles, then moves on before either can push any further.

"So here is why I called you last night, Detective," Hunt continues, now focused on Javier Esposito once more. "Yesterday, Detective Beckett and Richard Castle were kidnapped from their hospital rooms."

"We know," Esposito replies. "After your phone call, I called the hospital and they confirmed that Castle was gone – and had not checked out properly. And when I called Beckett . . . well, you answered."

"How did you know they were kidnapped?" Kevin Ryan asks, going back to the word that Hunt has used.

"Because I took them," Hunt smiles, once again amused at the easy reactions he is obtaining from both men as he continues.

"Yes, they are both safe, and no, I am not telling you where I have stashed them," Hunt tells them. "That needs to remain a secret for now. For both of their safety."

"But –"

"Alexis was also taken," Hunt tells them, and this information is no surprise to either detective. After calling to check on Castle, it was second nature for Esposito to check on his daughter one floor below.

"By you?" Esposito asks, the hope clear in his voice.

"I wish it were so," Hunt tells them. "Truth be told, she was taken an hour or so before my partner attempted to take her himself."

"Your partner?" Ryan asks. Both detectives are similarly startled when a fourth voice joins the conversation.

"That would be me," Major Terrance Cooper announces, standing up from the table along the window adjacent to the four-top being taken by the trio. He walks two steps, and pulls out the remaining empty chair, and settles in.

"How many of you are there?" Esposito muses aloud, sarcasm dripping heavily as he glances around the small restaurant, seeing if there is anyone else who might be offering them sideways glances.

Major Cooper simply offers a smirk of his own, as he sets his own glass of orange juice on the table, brought with him from his previous table as well.

"So here is the bottom line, gentlemen," Cooper begins, wiping his mouth with a white table napkin. "You are here because we need you. And time is of the essence. Someone is after your friend, Mr. Castle. Right now, your detective friend is protecting him, as best she can – and we have help for her on that front. But someone has also taken Alexis Castle, and by now, you know the importance this young girl plays in Mr. Hunt's world," he continues, pointing his thumb across the table toward his friend.

"We – the Major and I – are going hunting," the CIA man says bluntly. "We have to find Alexis, and we have to find whoever is behind this."

"How can we help?" Kevin Ryan asks.

"Anything," Esposito adds, glancing at his partner.

"Unfortunately, there is more," Hunt tells the two detectives, who finally, at this point, don't react. The two or three bombshells that have been dropped on them in the past few minutes have served to desensitize the duo.

"The phone call that your detective received on Wednesday, that I mentioned a minute ago – it came from a Mr. Smith –"

"Seriously, bro?" Esposito argues.

"Not very original," Ryan agrees. Hunt and Cooper chuckle as they see the duo mimic their own original reactions.

"Be that as it may," Hunt continues, undaunted, "here is what this man told Detective Beckett. He told her that she was not the target, as she surmised. He told her that my son and granddaughter were the targets. Apparently, whoever is behind this has decided that attacking the detective is not a workable solution. So they have gone to Option B. Going after her friends. Her family."

"Us," Kevin Ryan whispers.

"Yes, I would anticipate you and Detective Esposito would be future targets," Hunt agrees.

"I'm not hiding," Esposito immediately blusters, anger flaring. "We need to get to Lanie – she's our medical examiner – we need to get her to a safe place. I know things are getting serious between you and Jenny. We need –"

"They wouldn't . . ." Kevin Ryan's almost plea hangs between the men at the table.

"I think that anyone you think of as important to the detective, or important to either of you – that person is a potential target," Cooper remarks sadly.

"I'm not suggesting either of you go into hiding, Detective," Hunt tells Esposito. "Although making yourselves scarce is probably the most prudent approach. I'm asking you to throw yourself into the fray with us. But before you decide, hear me out. The other thing this Smith character told your Detective Beckett was that there is evidence that is damning to the person or persons behind all of this. This evidence was supposedly in the possession of Captain Roy Montgomery, your former boss. Apparently, your Captain felt the walls closing in on him, and sent this evidence to Mr. Smith before his death. That's what Smith told Beckett. And this evidence was – theoretically – the only thing holding these people back from taking Beckett out."

"And now this evidence is in the hands of this Smith guy?" Ryan asks.

"Well . . . so he says," Hunt remarks with a small smile.

"You don't believe him," Esposito replies.

"No, I don't believe him," Hunt agrees. "He told Beckett that the evidence he now possesses will keep the wolves at bay, but only if she agrees to stop searching on her end."

"That makes no sense," Kevin Ryan argues, a look of confusion taking over his face. "The evidence – if it exists – should do that on its own."

"Yeah, man," Esposito chimes in. "If you have evidence against me, then you hold all the cards. I have no leverage against you."

"We all agree on this point," Hunt confirms, nodding his head. "I am simply relaying the conversation that was held with Detective Beckett. At the end of the day, the Major and I believe that this Smith – whoever he is – is actually in bed with the people behind the murder of Detective Beckett's mother."

"Hell, he may be the ringleader for all we know," Cooper adds.

"Very true," Hunt agrees. "We have to keep every possibility open. Regardless, we believe, at a minimum, that he is in cohorts with these people. And if we find him – we find Alexis. Or vice versa."

The two detectives nod, and the four men are silent for a few seconds, using this pause as a chance to take a sip of whatever beverage sits in front of each of them.

"What I need from the two of you is to help me find this evidence," Hunt tells them. This surprises both me once again.

"What? Why? I mean, if this guy Smith has –"

"That's the point," Hunt interrupts. "I don't think he has it. We all agree that if this evidence exists, then it should be enough to keep the dogs off the trail. So it exists – but I don't think Smith has it. He is searching. He was testing Beckett with his phone call –"

"To see if she has it," Ryan interrupts, nodding his head in understanding.

"Exactly," Hunt continues. "And since she doesn't have the information, here is all we know for certain. Your Captain Montgomery _had_ the information, and he may have shared it with someone, and he may not have. That's your starting point. Coop and I are going to look for my granddaughter. I need you two to start looking for the evidence. And know this – as you look – you may just as likely have targets on your back."

"Where do we even start?" Ryan asks aloud.

"With Montgomery," Esposito answers quickly. "If the Captain had the evidence, then we start there. We start with Evelyn."

.

 _ **Sunday Morning – May 29, 2011, 9:32 a.m., on a motorboat off New Rochelle in Long Island Sound**_

.

Alexis Castle awakens with a start, immediately conscious of the bobbing motion of the boat – immediately remembering the past evening.

She has no phone, no watch, and has no idea how long she had been out yesterday before her . . . video conversation with her perpetrators. All she knows is that she has been here at least one night now, since it is now morning. She finally fell asleep late last night, after wracking her aching head of possibilities before finally succumbing to sleep. This morning, however, she is famished. She hasn't eaten in . . . well, she doesn't know how long.

The voice last night said there was food on aboard. She limps, dragging her leg behind her as she favors her hip, to the small galley and opens the fridge there. Sure enough, there is milk, bottled water, along with a large plastic bottle of ketchup, mustard, and jelly. She opens a cabinet and finds a couple of loaves of bread, along with some canned goods. She almost smiles at the jar of peanut butter and the box of cold cereal. Clearly they knew they were dealing with a teenager.

She quickly finds a bowl and spoon, and pours herself a bowl of cereal, adding the milk from the refrigerator. She eats quickly, and pours herself a second bowl and finishes it just as quickly. She stands, still favoring her hip, and starts looking around again. Obviously they – whoever _they_ are – can see her, or hear her. Otherwise they wouldn't have known when she awakened last night. She tries to be inconspicuous, but then throws caution to the wind.

"They know I'm here," she muses aloud as she begins walking around. She gets to the small steps, and glances topside. A natural, understandable nervousness kicks in, given what happened the first time she walked up those steps last night. Plus she isn't keen to climb that painful gauntlet just yet.

She decides against going up, and once again takes stock of her situation.

There is no gas in the motor – she tried that last night. The spotlight – anything she can use to signal someone – has been removed or disabled.

There is no cell phone, no radio on board, no watch. She searched high and low last night. There is no way of contacting anyone.

"Think, girl," she says aloud, softly. "There's always a way. Dad would write it like this. He would write something inconspicuous," she continues in her head.

" _You wouldn't see it at first. The reader would blow right past it. That's what I'm doing now,"_ she thinks to herself.

" _It's right in front of me. I've read it on a page, but have just blown right by it. Back up. Look again,"_ she thinks to herself, furrowing her brow.

" _Everything deserves a second look."_

She was able to sleep last night when she realized that although she is in danger, they don't want to kill her – whoever they are. At least not yet. If they wanted her dead, she'd be dead already. It would have been her head exploding last night, not the monitor up topside. So they need to keep her alive for some reason. Probably as a bargaining chip. But for who?

Her dad?

For Kate, the detective?

She pushes those thoughts away. The 'why' is not important right now. What is important is the 'what' and the 'how'.

As in what is she missing, and how does she get off this damn boat?

Then she can figure out the 'where' and the 'why'.

Gathering her strength, her courage, she braves the taunting steps and the pain that radiates from her hip and down her leg, and rises topside. Sweating from exertion, she stands, in the open on the deck, almost daring someone to take a shot. She moves in a small circle, turning a complete circle before smiling.

She sees a small, similarly-sized craft to the east out on the horizon, anchored, and nods her head. She has visitors. Probably where the shot came from last night. She turns back to the shore, gauging the distance. Two miles. Maybe more. There's no way she would make it. Not with this hip. Not with her head throbbing. Hell, maybe not even if she was in perfect shape. She thinks about the mines that the voice threatened are in the water.

" _Bullshit,"_ she tells herself. _"There's nothing out there,"_ she decides. It could be worse. She could be alone on an island – having to search for her own food, her own water, build her own shelter.

Yeah, it could be worse than being on a stocked motor boat with no gasoline. She sits on one of the benches, deciding that she isn't going to hide. Anyway, if someone passes by, she wants to be topside and ready to call for help. Then it hits her.

" _That's what the mines would be for,"_ she thinks to herself, and the smile that was radiating inside the young redhead extinguishes itself, as she stares off into the horizon at the small craft there.

.

 **A/N:** So, I had hoped to post this chapter long before now, but things got away from this week, and tonight our baby girl has come home from college for the weekend – so I am posting this without giving it as thorough a review as I normally do. If there are typos, errors, etc., I apologize. I hope you are still enjoying the story. This chapter had to set a few things up. The action starts in the coming chapters. There is a hunt for evidence, a hunt for Alexis and a . . . well, that would be telling (smile). See you next chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Glint – Chapter 10**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 12:10 p.m., At St. Bartholomew Church in New York City**_

.

The morning sun bathes the historic building with an eerie, almost mahogany glow as the parishioners are making their way – slowly – toward the exit near the rear of the chapel which faces Park Avenue. The push to leave the building proceeds with turtle-like grace. People stop and chat. They say hello. They offer hugs and handshakes. Some simply stare at their feet, watching one foot go in front of the other, a silent march as they contemplate the message from this morning.

The two men who sit in the fourth row toward the front, still sitting, however, are oblivious to the movement of the throng. Hiding in plain sight, the mayor of New York sits calmly, giving no outward clue of the muzzle that softly kisses his ribcage, courtesy of the stranger who sits next to him. The man smiles – he actually smiles – at Mayor Bob Weldon as he carries the conversation.

Weldon didn't notice the man as he sat directly behind him during the service. As the service ended, however, the silver-haired man calmly – too easily – stepped over and between the rows of expensive chairs separating them, quickly putting pressure on the Mayor's ribs with a simple command.

"Sit back down, Mr. Mayor," Hunt tells the politician. "Tell your friends to go ahead, you will meet them in a few minutes. Do this, and perhaps you actually will be able to keep that promise."

It's a new experience for Bob Weldon, but somehow he manages to stay calm, keeping his composure as he does as he is told.

"I'll be right there, let me say hello to my friend here," Weldon tells his friends, who simply nod and move toward the aisle. The idea that someone here knows the mayor and wants a little time with him is hardly news, hardly out-of-the-ordinary.

"Smooth," Jackson Hunt murmurs with admiration. "I can see why my son likes you."

"And your son might be . . . ?" Weldon asks.

"Richard Castle," Hunt replies, and once again the CIA man enjoys the reaction to this news. Sure, Castle's friends know _of_ his father. But to actually meet the man who these friends know that Castle himself has never met? At least as far as they know.

No, this reaction never gets old.

Mayor Weldon begins to offer a glance to his left, to see the face of his . . . well, it appears this is going to be an interrogation. Here in the church. Before the congregation can even get out. Perhaps it is better that he doesn't see his interrogator.

" _Don't give him any reason to renege on his promise,"_ Weldon thinks to himself.

The decision is not lost on the stranger.

"You're avoiding the opportunity to see my face," Hunt begins, "so I can tell you are thinking of how to get out of this alive. Truth be told, I really don't want to kill you."

Carefully, without getting even a glimpse of the stranger's face, Weldon glances down at the arm, covered by a jacket that holds the weapon against his side, causing yet another chuckle from Hunt.

"Okay, that might seem unlikely given I am holding a gun on you," Hunt tells the mayor, and slowly puts the weapon away.

"But trust me, Mr. Mayor, the gun would be the merciful option should you choose that door," Hunt remarks, and waits for a nod of confirmation from Weldon before continuing.

"What can I do for you, friend?" Weldon offers, attempting to disarm the situation as only a politician can. With words.

"My son is a writer," Hunt says calmly. He goes silent for a few seconds.

"A good one," Mayor Weldon replies, trying desperately to fill in the dead air between them.

"I tend to agree," Hunt comments. "He's got a vivid imagination. And he's led an interesting life. He has . . . interesting friends."

Weldon chews on those last words, mulling them over in his head before replying.

"Friends who care for him very much, if I may say so myself," Weldon tells him.

"That's debatable," Hunt tells him. "Which gets to my point. My question, actually. And let me say up front, we don't have much time right now. This church has a busy schedule. They will be moving us out soon enough, so don't bullshit me."

Weldon winces at the profanity used in the church, which draws an almost amusing reaction from the stranger next to him, who quickly marks the sign of the cross, touching his chest in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, before continuing.

"He's heard worse, believe me, Mr. Mayor," the stranger chuckles, and it is a sound that Weldon decides here and now that he never wants to hear again. It's not a laugh of mirth or merriment. Mayhem is more like it.

"My point is," Hunt continues, "I don't have time for you to say one thing, and then backtrack . . . you know, the typical political _bullshit_ ," he tells him, intentionally emphasizing the last word, just for effect.

"There are no cameras here running to catch your words. No adoring fans or constituents. You have an audience of one, Mr. Mayor, and this audience is very discriminating. We are already sitting here in the perfect place for you to meet your maker, if that becomes necessary. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Mayor Weldon responds, his fingers now fidgeting nervously, his palms slowly but surely gaining in moisture.

"Good. So here we go," Hunt replies. "My son is a writer. A good one. It's what he is good at. It's what he does. So I have to ask – what in the world were you thinking when you . . . let's say you allowed . . . can we use that word? Let's say allowed. What in the world were you thinking when you allowed my son into the 12th Precinct?"

" _So that's what this is about,"_ Weldon thinks, now having serious second-thoughts as to whether he is going to get out of here alive. _"He blames me for Castle getting shot. He blames me for Castle being involved with Montgomery and the funeral in the first place."_

"I can see you are searching for the right answer, Mr. Mayor," Hunt tells him. "Let me simplify this for you. The truth. Just tell the truth. Now I know this may not be second nature for you, given your profession, but there are many things that are second nature to us. Breathing, for example. Eating for example. And talking, Mr. Mayor. Talking is second nature. Just tell the truth. Anything that pops into your little head that isn't the truth – just delete it. But don't –"

"I know, I know, don't BS you," Weldon remarks, unable to use the word himself. Not here. Not when he needs the Man Upstairs' help in the worst way.

"Why sponsor Richard?" Hunt asks, and the use of Castle's full first name – something that Weldon has rarely heard, disarms him. Rick. Ricky. Castle. That Bastard. Yeah, he's heard those terms. 'Richard' is not one he hears often.

"Why sponsor my son into the 12th?" Hunt asks again. "See, to my way of thinking – and I admit I don't know all the particulars, I'm hoping you will fill those in for me – but to my way of thinking this is all too suspicious. You placed my son . . . no, let's scratch that. I'll make it easier. You placed a playboy mystery writer into one of the toughest precincts in the largest city in the country – just so he can shadow some hot lady detective? Seriously?"

Mayor Weldon now – for the first time – shudders. It is not lost on Hunt, who takes the involuntary action in stride, but files it away.

" _Yeah, there is something going on here,"_ Hunt tells himself. He stays quiet, offering intentional, awkward silence to the proceedings, watching the first bead of perspiration appear on the dark brow of the black man.

"I can tell you are mulling your next words over," Hunt remarks, finally breaking the silence. "That's smart. Continue to be smart for another two minutes, and we will both walk out of here."

Weldon closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths and raising his chin. To the CIA man, the mayor could almost be praying. It's not a bad idea, considering the situation. Finally, the mayor speaks again. He chooses his words carefully, speaking them slowly.

"There was no . . . ulterior motive on my part," Mayor Weldon begins. _"On my part,"_ he repeats, emphasizing the words so that the stranger understands.

"One does not get to become . . . mayor of _this_ city without making a few friends . . . without meeting a few friends who . . . who are willing to drop more than . . . a few dollars into one's campaign."

"So one of your wealthy donors needed a favor," Hunt tells him. "And that favor involved putting an inauspicious mystery novelist into a dangerous precinct? He's a writer, Mr. Mayor. Not a cop. Not a PI. He's never been a soldier. If there was a poster child of someone _not_ qualified to be put in harm's way, it's my son."

"It wasn't what your son . . . it wasn't what Castle did . . . does," Weldon replies, now glancing to his right, finding the front of the church empty. "It had nothing to do with Castle's qualifications. It had everything to do with wanting to put someone . . . what word did you use? Inauspicious. That's the right word. It had everything to do with wanting to put someone inauspicious into position to watch the captain, there."

Hunt's response is silence, eyebrows raised. The silence prompts Weldon to continue.

"My . . . friend . . . my donor indicated that there were people who were watching Captain Montgomery," Weldon pushes onward. "Apparently they were grooming him for something bigger, and I didn't get the impression it had anything to do with law enforcement. They wanted the real skinny on him, and so they told me they wanted me to keep an eye on Montgomery – for a period of time. I, of course -"

"And they wanted a mystery writer to spy on him?" Hunt questions, interrupting, now troubled by this information. Not because it makes sense. But because it _doesn't_ make sense. It sounds like something a man fearing for his life would come up with on the fly. Smoothly, deftly, the gun muzzle reappears in Weldon's side, drawing a small groan from the mayor.

"It's the truth," he mutters quickly, almost harshly. "I questioned the selection. Believe me, I did. I didn't think Castle was the right man. Yeah, Castle got lucky on that first case. But like you said, he's a writer, not a cop. And the only reason he was even involved in the first place was because he was initially a suspect – a murder occurs just the way he writes it? Come on, you know he would be a suspect. Yeah, he helped them solve it – but I figured that would be it. But then he goes all gaga over the detective, and wants in on a more permanent basis. I said no – you have to believe me – I said no. But evidently someone else wanted him there, because later that night I get a call. From one of my friends. He –"

"Does this friend have a name?" Hunt asks.

"Yeah, Smythe," Weldon replies. "Part of one of my donor groups, but I never met him – only spoke with him on the phone. I-"

"You never met the man who you say poured significant dollars into your campaign, and you didn't see anything suspicious about this?" Hunt argues, his voice remaining calm but processing what he has been told.

Smith. Smythe. Different pronunciation. Same name. Same man.

"I said I never met _him_ ," Weldon replies. "Only on the phone. But Samantha, Jerry – the people who work for the firm – I meet with them all the time."

"Who are they?" Hunt asks, now putting together a different outline in his mind, working quickly through the scenarios.

"From the beginning," Weldon replies, now warming up to the story. He – like his friend Castle – is a storyteller. Only Weldon's stories are painted on a different page, with a different brush.

"The firm, Future Forward of New York, is small but heavily funded. Samantha is the director there, and Jerry is the controller. I don't know Smythe's position but they both take their direction from him. They are my contacts for any kind of day-to-day communication. Smythe gets involved rarely. Maybe six, seven times in the past three years."

Weldon pauses to brush away the multiple beads of sweat now populating his forehead.

"The deal was simple. They wanted to know what was going on inside the 12th, particularly with Montgomery. Told me to think of it like a spy novel, like a covert military operation. Castle would appreciate that. But the key was that Castle was never to know why he was there. He wasn't supposed to know he was keeping tabs on Montgomery. So I used our normal activities to obtain information from Rick. Poker games. Basketball games. Nights at the bar. I'd ask how things were going at the precinct, with Roy, with the detective, were they treating him right . . . things like that. He would give me tidbits here and there, and I in turn, would pass them on to Samantha. But here's the thing – she never asked me any questions. Never! I would call, I'd tell her anything I thought was interesting that Castle said, and that would be it. No one was getting hurt. Until this week, I mean."

Hunt nods his head absently, considering this new information. In an audacious way – it makes sense. Especially in his line of work, Hunt has found that the best informants are ones who don't even realize that they _are_ informants. You don't ask them questions. You don't prod them for information. You don't interrogate them. You act normal. You just let them talk. In a normal setting. Sometimes they say very little, sometimes they won't shut up. All too often, none of their babble is important.

But every now and then . . .

Yeah, every now and then a gem appears. They never know, of course, that they have given away such a precious stone. And that's why they are perfect. The innocent, unknowing informant.

His son.

Hunt considers what he has learned, and slowly pulls the weapon away, and quickly stands. He's gotten what he wanted. Well, not what he _wanted_ , per se. But what he needed. He has the name of a firm, and a plausible explanation forming in his mind.

He glances down at the man who still sits in the chair, and suddenly smiles. That dangerous smile.

"You _do_ know what this means, don't you, Mr. Mayor?" Hunt asks.

"I . . . I don't . . . I guess not," the politician stumbles.

"You said that Richard asked you for a favor," Hunt tells him.

"Yes, that's right. He asked if he could stay on at the 12th, if I could pull some strings to –"

"And you said no," Hunt interrupts. "This is important. You said no, but then got a phone call later that night."

"That's right," Weldon agrees, nodding his head, wondering if he really is going to get out of this after all, but still making the effort not to look up, not to make eye contact.

"I got a call from Smythe, telling me that Castle had done a good job forcing his way into their little sphere, and he'd be perfect as a . . . as a . . ."

"A mole, Mr. Mayor," Hunt tells him menacingly, the tone darkening. Hunt then bends down, face to face with the mayor, forcing him to look him in the face.

"What it means . . . It means you have a bug of your own," Hunt smiles. "They are also keeping tabs on _you_ , Mr. Mayor. Something for you to consider."

The widening eyes of the mayor almost . . . almost bring a genuine smile of humor to Hunt's face. But nothing is funny right now. Alexis is gone, he doesn't have time for humor, or chit chat or niceties. Every minute counts.

He turns and leaves the mayor sitting, now trembling, in the chair as he moves into the aisle of the now almost-empty church. He pulls out his cell phone as he walks, feeling the vibration. He pauses, and seeing the new text message from Major Terrance Cooper, he smiles – this time a genuine smile.

 _COOP: "Stone. Found something in the videos. Come for a look-see."_

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 1:20 p.m., At Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

"That's it, Mr. Castle," Diane Francis coos, her voice soft, encouraging. "That's fifteen minutes now," she tells him as she glances at her watch. He's been up and walking laps throughout the interior of the house, dragging the portable medical apparatus along with him. His chest burns. He legs burn. Everything is on fire. The sweat pours from his face, dropping to the floor below.

Francis walks in front of him, while Kate Beckett walks alongside him, there only if he needs support, if he needs her balance. For the first ten or twelve minutes he was fine. These last few minutes? He's been going downhill rapidly. Kate's shoulder is underneath him now, as he puts more pressure on her with every step.

"I've got you, Castle," Kate tells him, trying to match the tone of her voice with that of the medical operative assigned to Castle. She is just trying to keep her voice soft and calm. Instead, it comes out as more of a sultry sound than anything, which only reddens her face with embarrassment. She knows they are not in a good place. She quickly puts it away, for now.

"Just a few more steps, Rick," Kate tells him, pointing ahead to the bed that Francis is now only one or two steps from touching. "That's two sessions today. You're doing great."

Castle's response is simply a grunt and a grimace, as he lifts his head with blurry eyes, now focusing on the finish line that is just a few more steps away.

"It . . . burns," he manages to say, as Kate wipes his brow once again.

"True," Francis replies. "But it is a good burn," she offers with a smile – one that is not reciprocated by either the novelist or the detective.

"Alexis," he almost whimpers, his mind capturing an image of his daughter as he takes the final two steps, and reaches mercifully for the railing of the bed.

"Soon, Mr. Castle," Francis smiles, as she skims through a series of text messages on her phone, nodding her head with satisfaction.

"You will have her back soon."


	11. Chapter 11

**Glint – Chapter 11**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

A/N: As always, thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing. A quick warning for this chapter – please be mindful of the dates and locations on each scene. There is a flashback, and multiple developments occurring here. There is a lot of back and forth. So, off we go . . .

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 1:32 p.m., At Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

"Wow. Two minutes," Detective Kate Beckett notes, glancing at her watch.

"If that long," Diane Francis agrees, as both women watch the now sleeping form of the tall man who is laid out in the makeshift medical bed, for lack of a better term. Upon arriving at Kate Beckett's father's cabin, they had equipped the guest bed there with the portable railings the CIA woman had brought with her. They had done their best to sterilize the room and install the necessary medical apparatus. Now the two women sit, somewhat amazed, at how quickly sleep – or unconsciousness, take your pick – claimed the writer after his second grueling walking session today.

In truth, the walking sessions are necessary, but they are also taking their toll on Richard Castle. Ideally, this would be done in a much more sterile environment, with an official physical therapist and the expansive resources of a top notch hospital, over a broader period of time.

Unfortunately that option is no longer on the table.

"Let him rest as long as he can, as much as he wants until around 1700 hours," Francis tells the detective. "I'm going to make a few more preparations."

"Remind me . . . was coming here a getaway or a last stand?" Kate wonders aloud, watching the medical operative move toward the door leading out of the guest bedroom.

"A little of both," Francis offers with a parting laugh, and she is gone. Kate can hear her retreating steps on the wooden floorboards of the old family cabin. A cabin with a rich history of memories – good memories. Memories of Kate with her parents, taking a weekend away during the spring. An extended summer trip. She closes her eyes, and suddenly the tears are wet on her cheeks as she sees Johanna – mom – so clearly. She's hovering over the small range in the kitchen, and the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon actually kisses Kate's nostrils. She hears her mother's familiar laughter.

Great memories.

Memories that are definitely being slowly erased with this particular stay, being replaced with new, incomplete memories.

She slowly opens her eyes, wiping her cheeks, as she glances at the man lying still in the bed next to her, with wires hooked up to his chest, an IV in his arm, and a receptacle on his thumb. She has no idea how this will turn out. Whether this will be something she looks back on with fondness, or something more akin to how she feels when she thinks about her mother.

She watches him sleep, and all thoughts are slowly carried on the waves of the moment.

Kate Beckett doesn't like this – not one bit.

Sure, she agreed with the notion that they needed to get Castle away. Not that she was being given much of a choice. The very fact that someone has taken Alexis confirms that the shot in the cemetery was not the end, but only the beginning. With their kidnapping of Alexis, whoever is running this little game told them very clearly that the hunt was still on. So bringing him here – to a safe zone – not only made sense, but initially offered Kate some hope of privacy with her recuperating shadow, some hope of something more.

Now, however, as Diane Francis goes outside to make more . . . 'preparations' she called them, any romanticized hopes of rest, recuperation, and renewal have given way to a foreboding sense of dread, more than anything else.

She continues to stare at the now-peaceful form of the man for whom she has only recently – in the past few days – come to realize her true feelings. Feelings which have only intensified her desire to see him recover. Feelings which have only intensified the guilt she feels for dragging him into her own personal war in the first place.

" _Not that I was the one doing the dragging half the time,"_ she muses softly with a sad smile, knowing that each of them – over the past couple of years – have more or less taken turns in that department regarding her mother's case.

She reaches over the railing, just enough to brush her hand against Castle's elbow. She allows her fingers to run down his arm, finally intermingling with his fingers. For a brief instant, his fingers close, locking with hers. She stifles a gasp, knowing it is an involuntary response on his part. Still, she watches the reflexive action curiously, burning the image into her consciousness – and good thing, too, as he just as quickly loosens his fingers from hers, releasing a soft moan as his brow furrows.

"Rest," she whispers, now bringing her fingers up to his face, caressing his cheek.

"And come back to me."

She closes her eyes, for a moment enjoying the soft touch of his face on her hand. The thought quickly evaporates as she feels the vibration against her hip. Pulling the mobile phone from the small hip holster, she frowns as she sees the caller-ID.

"Lanie," she mumbles, staring at the name as she holds the foreign device in her hand – her mind traveling back to yesterday. To her conversation yesterday morning with one Jackson Hunt.

.

 _ **FLASHBACK (Yesterday): Saturday Morning – May 28, 2011, 10:23 a.m., Somewhere in New York City**_

 _._

" _Now, are you certain you've got all of this?" Jackson Hunt asks Kate Beckett as he hands her the new mobile phone. He's cloned her original, and kept it – the brazen bastard. He gives her the clone._

" _I'm good," Kate replies evenly, retrieving the mobile device._

" _I'm holding on to yours for safe-keeping . . . just for a while" he tells her with an easy smile. "This way I will see every call that is placed to you. And this way – at least for now – anyone who might hack in and track your phone's location – looking for you – they will see my location, and will think you are still here in the city. That gives us a couple of days – at least – to get Richard to safety – at least give him a fighting chance to start healing."_

" _If, as you suspect," Kate asks, "someone actually does hack my phone, find my location . . . then they find you," she reminds him._

" _That will be their mistake," he tells her nonchalantly, and it frightens her that there is no evidence of pride or boasting in his remarks. He tells her this as if he were telling her today's weather. He moves and speaks with a coldness Kate has rarely . . . no, scratch that . . . never seen._

 _Ever._

 _Kate simply nods her head in understanding as she appears to inspect the device, as Hunt continues giving her marching instructions._

" _Remember," he tells her, "you are not to answer any calls that appear to come from someone you know. Your friends, your family, your co-workers, credit card companies, any number that appears familiar, any number you recognize – do not answer. I want you off the grid. I want my son off the grid. Just for the next couple of days. I want anyone and everyone wondering where you are. Even your closest friends and family."_

" _You really think this Mr. Smith is going to call me back?" Kate asks, pushing for clarification on their ongoing conversation of the past hour. They are standing outside a white van – the same Ford Transit model as the darker van they used earlier to escape from the hospital with Castle in tow. Inside the large vehicle is a recently transported – and still unconscious - Richard Castle, thanks to the cocktail applied earlier. They are minutes away from taking off for Kate's upstate family cabin – a hideaway of sorts for the next few days._

" _I have no doubt you will hear from him again," Hunts smiles. "Once he realizes you are gone – which means you have Castle. Once he realizes you have left the city. Maybe in a day or two. But you will hear from him. And soon."_

" _And when he calls?" she asks._

" _Answer it. It will come from a burner phone so you won't recognize the number. But those are the calls I want you to answer."_

" _Just not for a day or so," Kate confirms, as they have just discussed._

" _Exactly. No calls in or out for the next forty-eight hours," he tells her. "I need time to work, and Richard needs time to heal a bit. It's going to be important to get all of this done, get this put to bed in the next few days, because Richard really needs to be back in the hospital. So, just assume that every call – in and out – from your phone is going to be monitored. Any call that comes in that you recognize – ignore it. I don't want you giving them a jump on us – I don't want them – whoever they are – to be heading your way before we are ready, before we have gathered everything we need to know."_

" _I assume you will be listening in," Kate half asks, glancing through the open door at the sleeping writer._

" _Those calls you choose to answer, yes, I will listen in. I want to hear the conversation – and – I want to start my own trace, to see if we can see where the call is coming from."_

" _But I can do that," Kate argues. "We have that technology at the precinct that will –"_

" _Not like my technology, Detective," he interrupts. "Mine is much faster, much more reliable, and much less . . . visible." He smiles again. She's getting used to his smiles. They are bothering her less and less._

" _The important thing is that he will be tracing the call, too," Hunt continues. "And I want him to trace it. I want him to find you. I want him up at your cabin. The terrain you describe is perfect for us to take out whoever shows up. I want him to find you. But first, I need to find Alexis."_

 _Kate nods, glancing upward at the sky above. The sky is darkening, with ominous clouds forming overhead._

" _It looks like rain," she muses._

" _Appropriate," he tells her._

" _You really think you can get this solved in – what did you say – a few days?" Kate asks, now returning her attention to the CIA man. "I mean, I know you government types are confident and all, but –"_

" _I can do things you cannot," he interrupts. "The rules you play by don't necessarily apply to me. My methods tend to . . . well, results just seem to come fairly quickly. I'll leave it at that."_

" _But why not take Castle to . . . Langley, or D.C., or upstate Washington . . . whichever agency you belong to? Why not –"_

" _It's the CIA," he tells her, surprising her with his candor. "I have no concern that you can keep that a secret," he tells her, offering just enough menace into his voice to act as both a compliment and a warning._

" _And taking Richard down there would only let people know that I have . . . a weakness to be exploited," he continues. "This way, I can hopefully get Richard back to a healthy state without giving away our relationship," he concludes as his eyes turn toward his right, to the figure who walks down the large alley toward them. Kate's eyes follow his, and find the tall blonde as she approaches._

" _Detective Beckett, this is medical operative Diane Francis," Hunt says by way of introduction. "Diane is a highly qualified nurse and technician . . . among her other talents," he tells the detective. "She will be accompanying you and Richard to the cabin."_

" _Now wait a minute," Kate argues – and she isn't sure if she is arguing this for operational reasons or simply because that last thing she wants right now – with she and Castle in their tenuous position – is Castle waking up to a blonde bombshell taking care of him._

" _How does it help bringing yet another person into this?" Kate questions._

" _Trust me, Detective, we're going to need all the help we can get," Hunt counters. "And most importantly, you aren't a nurse. You aren't a medical professional, and Richard needs medical expertise with him at all times – at least for the next week or two. Surely you see the truth in this."_

 _Reluctantly, Kate realizes he is right, and she extends a hand to the blonde who is now just a few feet away._

" _Detective Kate Beckett," Kate says, introducing herself. The taller woman takes Kate's hand – it is a firm but friendly handshake. Her voice is soft, but low in tone. It is a striking contrast."_

" _A pleasure," Diane Francis offers, smiling brightly. "Not the best circumstances, but we manage."_

" _We're out of time," Hunt remarks as he catches the motioning from Major Cooper. "You know what to do Diane. Detective – Remember, no calls, forty-eight hours."_

 _With that, the older man takes his leave, sliding into the passenger seat of the SUV as the Major slides in behind the wheel. Kate opens her mouth to say something, but Nurse Francis is already in the larger transport van, sliding the door closed as she sits next to the modified mobile gurney that holds Richard Castle._

" _Okaaay," Kate whispers to herself, steeling herself for long, quiet and uncomfortable trip upstate._

.

 _ **(PRESENT TIME) Sunday – May 29, 2011, 1:37 p.m., Back at Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

Kate stares at her ringing phone, her eyes focused on Lanie's name and photo image that appear on her small screen. Talking to Lanie right now would be so good. Having her best friend here with her would be even better. But she glances at the sleeping form of Richard Castle. The decision is too easy.

She puts the phone back into the small hip holder, and turns her focus back to the patient lying in the bed.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she mutters to the universe, her message clearly aimed at Jackson Hunt . . . wherever he happens to be now. Thinking of Hunt makes her think of Esposito and Ryan. She had no idea what they are doing. She thinks of Alexis. She has no idea where the young woman is.

It strikes her suddenly that she has never felt so out of control, so powerless . . . and given her history of searching for her mother's killer, this is saying a lot.

She shakes those thoughts out of her head, returning her focus to the present – here and now. She walks out of the bedroom to the main living area of the cabin, walking to the window where she observes, with growing interest, her other companion here in the wooded upstate region. She watches Diane Francis walk off paces outside the cabin, occasionally bending over to mark something in the ground as she talks on the phone.

As she speaks, Francis turns toward the window, smiling, forcing an instinctive wave of the hand from the detective in return.

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 1: 37 p.m., At Roy Montgomery's Home in Queens, New York**_

.

The sky is cloudless, the sun bathing the streets with pre-summer warmth. It's still muggy from the downpour from yesterday, and the two detectives both are feeling the discomfort from the humidity as they approach the beautifully-decorated two story home in Queens. Evelyn Montgomery's green thumb is evident along either side of the colorful steps leading up to the home both men know well.

"Feels strange, bro," Kevin Ryan mutters to his partner as they mount the steps. Before Javier Esposito can reply, they hear a woman's voice from their right, just behind them calling out.

"There's no one home," the older woman tells them men. Both detectives turn to look, and then descend the stairs, walking toward the woman who approaches.

"And you are?" Esposito asks, his tone friendly as he and Ryan simultaneously pull out their detective badges, identifying themselves.

"Sandy Bernstein," she replies affably, as she gives the leash a quick but smooth yank, pulling back the small English terrier that growls at the two strangers.

"I live right there," the woman tells them as she points to the house next door. "Been there for twenty-five years. Known the Montgomery's for half that time. Nice family. Sad news about Roy."

"Yeah . . . yeah, sad news," Esposito remarks, glancing down at the irritated dog that tries to snap at his ankles. The woman can tell by the quick flash of emotion that crosses both men's faces that both were close with her now deceased neighbor.

"You mentioned that no one is home?" Kevin Ryan questions. "How do you know?"

"Evelyn left yesterday . . . no . . . two days ago," Bernstein tells them. "She took the girls. Said they needed to get away. Can't really blame them, can you?"

"No, I can't say that I do," Esposito agrees, glancing back at the brown building that has been home to Roy Montgomery and his family for over a decade.

"She didn't happen to tell you where she was going, did she?" Ryan asks, now taking his notepad out, by habit to jot down notes.

"No, and honestly I didn't ask," the woman replies. "I didn't want to be nosey or anything," she continues, which draws a well-stifled chuckle from both men.

"She just said the girls needed to get away," Bernstein continues, undaunted. "Away from the house. From the sights, the smells. The girls were traumatized. Their father dead, and his friend shot. They were scared, the poor things."

Yeah, this makes sense. Both detectives know the younger girls, and suddenly – without realizing it – both men see young Kate Beckett in the two young girls in their minds. Another parent taken away suddenly, unexpectedly. Violently. Another girl – this time two of them – left with only one parent.

"Do you have any idea when they will be back?" Ryan asks.

"No, but I have to tell you – that was an awful lot of bags they were carrying . . . a lot of luggage they were dragging out to that cab."

The two detectives glance at one another, and then take their leave.

"Well, Ms. Bernstein, we –"

"That's Mrs. Bernstein young man," Bernstein offers with a bit of defiance. "I'll have you know I've been happily married for forty-one years now."

"My apologies, Mrs. Bernstein," Esposito corrects himself. "You've been very helpful."

With that the two detectives walk to the dark Sedan – Ryan's car this time – as they keep their thoughts to themselves until they are safely in the car. They watch as Sandy Bernstein and her ferocious little dog walk down the street until she is rounds the corner.

"Thoughts," Ryan remarks, glancing at his partner.

"They took a taxi," Esposito begins, "which tells me they either took a plane or train. Not an awful lot of help, except . . ."

"Captain's car," Ryan mentions, pointing to the empty slot in the driveway in front of the small one-car garage.

"Yeah, it's not there," Esposito nods. "Captain always parked it out front in the driveway. And it was here earlier this week before Captain's funeral. I can't imagine she sold it that quickly. So where is it?"

"And is Evelyn's family car in the garage?" Ryan adds.

"It's worth a look," Esposito agrees, as Ryan puts the sedan in motion.

"Down the block?" Esposito asks.

"Yep, I'll park there, and we can swing back through the back yards," Ryan replies. "Something isn't adding up."

"I just hope there are no dogs," Javier mutters as he stares out of the window.

Ryan chuckles at his friend as he pulls the car down the block and turns, pulling to a stop. Both men quickly exit the vehicle and take off, on a slow jog down the alley of backyards, counting off homes.

Within a minute, they have counted off seven houses and stop at the house to their right.

"Ready?" Esposito asks.

"Here goes nothing," Ryan smiles, and both men hop the small fence, protected by a six foot high bush. They are three, then four, then five steps into the yard, beyond the fence when the explosion knocks both men airborne and backwards, leveling the Montgomery house, flames reaching skyward with the deafening blast.


	12. Chapter 12

**Glint – Chapter 12**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** Okay, so first of all – my apologies to everyone for the lack of postings. I normally try to post two or three chapters a week, and I have been woefully short of that goal this week. I hope to get another chapter posted this weekend, as I will be traveling next week. Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing. I hope you are enjoying this one.

On with the story . . .

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 1:44 p.m., At Jackson Hunt's temporary apartment in New York**_

.

Jackson Hunt frowns as he takes yet another look at the series of video feeds that Major Terrance Cooper has complied for him while Hunt was . . . interrogating the Mayor of New York City. These are feeds from the hospital from that morning. Some feeds had been put in place by Hunt in his disguise as a hospital custodian. The other few feeds were available once they hacked into the hospital surveillance system.

He's frustrated, as he glances at his watch. Time is ticking, and this is the third time he has done this in the past couple of days since Alexis' disappearance.

"Look again, Stone," Cooper tells him. Cooper is a longtime ally, and an even longer friend. And the Major is – all things considered – in a relatively good mood. He already knows what is on the feed, and he also knows the silver-haired man well enough not to just point anything out. Jackson Hunt is far more comfortable seeing things for himself, formulating his own theories on the fly. Not allowing him to make his own discoveries interrupts the analytical mind of the CIA man. Cooper has learned this over the years, and so he allows his friend a little time to see it on his own.

Grunting in frustration that mounts because of the very personal nature of what's at state, Hunt complies, taking yet another look.

"What do we know?" Cooper asks, prodding gently, as he plops another tootsie pop sucker in his mouth. Chocolate. He pulls it out, smiling for a moment, then reinserts the cheap delicacy.

"Whoever took Alexis – they took her in a chopper," Hunt tells him, staring at the feed. "One we haven't been able to find."

"True," Cooper replies. "But look again. And this time, reverse your thinking. You're wondering where they went. You're thinking sequentially – moving forward in time. Reverse it. Go backwards."

Hunt stares at his friend for a second or two before nodding his head, lips pursed. He's too close to this. Thank God Terrance is here. He should have – would have – thought of this on his own had this not become so personal . . . had this not been about Alexis. Shaking his head in disgust, he complies, changing the times on each of the feeds so that he sees what was transpiring before Alexis was taken. Now he backtracks, reversing the search, no longer concerned with where they went, but rather where they came from.

"There," Cooper points out as they watch the man – their perp – on the video feed as he enters the young redhead's private room. Hunt only takes a few seconds to watch the sleeping young woman in the bed.

" _Not now,"_ he tells himself, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

"Now back it up – let's look at this feed," Cooper continues, pointing to another square on the screen as he watches Hunt follow the crumbs backward.

"He comes out of the elevator . . . Here!" Hunt remarks with emphasis.

"Yeah," Cooper agrees, "so let's back it up more. Take a look at this feed here, thirty seconds earlier from the previous feed."

The two men watch the man in question – dressed in greens, looking to all the world like a hospital nurse, as he enters the elevator on the first floor, minutes before he gets to Alexis' room. Without prompting, Hunt searches other feeds quickly, looking another thirty seconds prior to this before finding the man walking down one of the long hospital corridors on the first floor.

"It looks like he came from the street entrance," Hunt muses aloud.

"Correct," Cooper tells him. "Keep going."

Hunt continues backing up, switching feeds, nodding his head in satisfaction until the two men have now switched to a city feed of traffic surveillance outside the hospital.

"Right here," Cooper points, as Hunt nods.

"Got another one of those?" Hunt asks, as his friend smiles and pulls a second candy sucker from his chest pocket, and hands it to the older man.

"Watch him," Cooper tells him. "Watch his bearings."

Hunt watches as the stranger on the monitor makes his way toward the hospital, walking in a westerly direction. Hunt pauses for a moment, and Cooper uses the moment to reach across his friend, pushing another feed, and backs the time up another thirty seconds.

"Just watch," Cooper tells him.

Seconds later, the two government men see a silver-colored Infiniti pull up to a light, and the passenger door opens. The stranger steps out.

"Gotcha," Hunt smiles.

"Can't believe he didn't take a taxi," Cooper smiles in agreement.

"His loss," Hunt replies, and Cooper shudders as he hears the frightening edge creep into his friend's voice. He watches as Hunt takes out a pad to scribble down the car license plate number. Hunt stares at the feed for another few seconds before suddenly backing the picture up, frame by frame until the car in question is in the best light. Not just the car.

A face. A face in the windshield, on the driver's side.

The deadly smile on Hunt's face is familiar to Cooper, as Hunt wordlessly rises, moving toward the window in the small apartment, gazing downward some twenty floors below at the street level. He thinks about his young granddaughter – how afraid she must be, how alone she must feel. He allows the anger to burn – he wants the anger to burn – he wants this to become personal. Sure, he's calculating, but with a more fierce purpose than usual. He feeds on this rising anger as Cooper comes to stand alongside him.

For a moment, neither speaks, as both simply take in the sight of the city laid out below them.

Suddenly, Jackson Hunt smiles. It is a smile that still – all these years later – sends shivers down the military man's spine.

"A face, and a plate," Hunt muses aloud. "I assume you already put a call out on the plates."

"Just waiting for Henry to call back," Cooper tells him with a nod.

"Does Henry know what this is about?" Hunt asks, eyebrows raised.

"No," Cooper tells him. "But he does suspect something. I mean, come on, Stone – he knows you. He's not stupid."

"No, he's not," Hunt agrees. "But don't tell him anything, Coop. I want this between you and me."

"And Francis," Cooper amends.

"Yeah," Hunt allows with a short nod as he pulls out a deck of cards. Wordlessly, both men move to the small dining table in the apartment, pulling out chairs and sitting across from one another.

"What are we playing?" Cooper asks.

"Quick game of rummy," Hunt tells him. "That's all we will have time for, if I know Henry."

Hunt shuffles the deck of cards, and fires out six cards to his companion when his phone rings.

"Henry already?" Hunt muses, then corrects himself. "No, he'd be calling you . . ."

He reaches into his pocket, and retrieves the cellular device, and raises an eyebrow as he sees the number.

"Problem?" he asks by way of greeting.

"You could say that," Javier Esposito replies. "Kev and I just got our asses damn near blown sky high."

"Where?" he asks, now fully engaged, as he puts the call on his speakerphone and motions to Cooper, mouthing the word 'Esposito'.

"At Montgomery's house," the detective replies. "Evelyn and the kids were gone. Took off to who knows where. Kevin and I tried to enter from the back, but evidently we tripped some type of wire or switch. Maybe a motion detector. Anyway, the whole house went up."

"Hmmm," Cooper hums as he drums his fingers on the table, a frown creasing his dark face. He wipes his bald head – by habit – as he considers this new development.

"Either of you hurt?" Hunt asks, actually concerned about their well-being – which draws a look of interest from the black man across the table from him.

"Naw, just a couple of scrapes and bruises," Esposito remarks.

"Speak for yourself," Kevin Ryan barges in. "My ears are still ringing and my head hurts like hell."

"So does my granddaughter's, I'm sure," Hunt replies icily, drawing a smile from his companion. This is more like the Jackson Hunt – the Stone – that he knows.

The simplicity of the statement stops the conversation cold on the detective's end, as they both quickly stare at each other, getting their first real glimpse of the assassin – and not even a live, in-person one, at that.

"Yeah, well, we are going to check the next lead. We will –"

"Detectives," Hunt interrupts. "Change of plans. I'd like you to drop that – and go and keep an eye on your mayor. I had a . . . a talk . . . with him this morning. I'd like to know what he does today."

"Are you sure," Kevin asks. "I mean, we're –"

"I'm certain, Detective Ryan," Hunt tells him as he hears the phone in Cooper's pocket ringing. "I need to know whether he goes on the run. If he does, then his conversation with me was . . . lacking. Bad for him. If he stays put, then I want to know who comes to visit him. It's quite important, Detectives."

With that, the impatient CIA man disconnects the call, leaving two very ruffled and uncomfortable police detectives staring at the mobile device in Esposito's hand, wondering what kind of man so casually threatens the mayor of New York City.

"Henry?" Hunt asks, glancing at Cooper.

"Yeah," Cooper remarks with a half-smile as he writes the information down on a small notepad, then rips the page out and hands it to Hunt. Hunt simply nods his head at the piece of paper, committing the address to memory before ripping the paper into small pieces.

He moves quickly, efficiently – and quietly – as he begins making his preparations for his second visit of the day. This visit, this questioning – he decides then and there – will not go so easily on his new-found perp.

"This apartment is uptown," he remarks, as he grabs a pre-made shoulder bag and quickly checks the contents. He walks to the kitchen counter, opening up his larger bag and pulls out a few . . . well, utensils would be one word to describe the paraphernalia he inspects. He selects a few sharp, shiny, and utterly frightening objects – just in case his soon-to-be guest decides not to be forthcoming with information. He thinks about Alexis for a moment, and sets his jaw as he makes a last minute decision and retrieves one more object from his large bag and transports it to the shoulder bag.

"Want any help?" Major Terrance Cooper asks, already knowing the answer.

"Not for this one, Terrance," Hunt tells him. "From here on out, this is going to get messy. I don't expect you to –"

"This has never been about what you or I expect, Stone," his friend interrupts. Hunt lays a hand on Cooper's shoulder in a rare, genuine show of true affection.

"I know Terrance," Hunt replies, drawing even with the man. "I'm just afraid I won't be . . . you won't want to be there if . . ."

He doesn't need to finish his sentence. Cooper knows. Both men have been staring at their watch in the past minute. The explosion at Montgomery's house was a surprise. And not a good one. It tells both men that whoever is behind this has done either one of two things – and neither bodes well for the well-being of one Alexis Castle.

Either they have just upped the ante, or they are now covering their tracks and eliminating all loose ends.

Loose ends like Evelyn Montgomery.

Loose ends like Alexis Castle.

"If she's dead when I get there, Coop . . ."

No, he doesn't need to finish this sentence either, as he watches his friend disregard his previous statement and slide his own shoulder holster into place. Hunt watches as Cooper places an insanely large knife into the shin sheaf along his leg.

"Well . . . what are we waiting for?" Cooper asks, as Hunt grunts in gratitude. Both men walk to the front door, departing the apartment, now –finally – officially on the hunt.

.

 **A/N:** As I said, I will try to get Chapter 13 up before the end of the weekend. If not, I apologize in advance, as it will be towards the end of next week before I am online again. A great weekend to all of you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Glint – Chapter 13**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 3:29 p.m., At Jim Beckett's family cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

His mouth is dry, his tongue sticky once again, as Richard Castle awakens. He blinks a few times, the familiar pain in his chest now becoming exactly that; familiar. Not overbearing, not overpowering . . . but certainly not insignificant either. But it is just . . . there. He almost smiles to himself, realizing this is the first time in days that he does not wake up in complete agony. Then he feels it. Something foreign, yet warm in his hand. He glances down with a raised eyebrow as he sees the slender fingers interlocked with his own.

Kate.

He moves his head slightly to his right, so he can get a better look at her face. Her head is lying atop his bed, at an odd angle. It's clear that she has sacrificed comfort to be able to fall asleep with him, holding his hand.

For a minute, then a second minute, he just stares at her. He does something he has – before the events earlier this week – dreamed of on and off for the last year or so. He just watches her sleep. He's always wondered what kind of sleeper she was. Does she smile while asleep? Does she drool? Is she a snorer? Does she make those cute little cooing sounds that he likes to write about?

A sudden burning itching from the staples in his chest startle him momentarily, causing him to quickly move his free left hand toward his chest – but the movement is enough to draw the light sleeper awake.

"Castle?" she awakens with a start, her head popping up quickly as her eyes find his.

Her hair is unkempt, her eyes sultry. He hates himself for how he is feeling about her, given everything that has happened this week.

"Beckett," he winces slightly – and just as quickly as it came, the itching pain is gone, thankfully.

She offers a quick look at her watch, and suddenly she is wide awake.

"Time to get you up if you are awake," she motions toward the door. Sure, she and Nurse Francis would have preferred he sleep for another couple of hours, but so be it. He's awake now.

She stands, stretching her stiff limbs, and quickly decides that he is not the only one who needs a walk. An idea quickly forms in her head, as she lowers the rail protecting him from falling from the bed.

"Do we really have to do this now?" he asks, and she can tell he is only half-kidding. As much as it pains her – and him – she knows this is necessary.

"He's awake?" Nurse Francis asks, standing at the doorway into the bedroom where she has just arrived. "Good, we can get in another session and then put some food into him."

"Food sounds better," he mumbles.

"I know, Castle," Kate tells him. "I'm hungry too. Get this done so we both can eat."

With that, she offers her hand to him. He stares at it for a moment, his eyes going from her hand to the tall, beautiful nurse standing in the doorway. He lifts his hand, allowing the detective to slowly – gently – pull him sideways so he is sitting up. She helps him swing his legs around, so that he is ready to stand. Then she surprises him.

"If you want Nurse Francis to take over, she can," Kate tells him, unable to keep the sadness growing in her heart out of her voice. She has seen the looks he has given the alluring woman. The sadness in her voice draws his eyes to hers, and he sees the unasked question there.

"No . . . no, this is fine," he tells her. "You're fine." He pulls slightly against her weight, which in turn causes her to pull hard against him, helping him to his feet. While they do this tug of war, Nurse Francis has now moved inside the room and is disconnecting a portion of the monitoring devices from the portable stand. She waits until Kate has him standing and ready to walk, before she walks toward the detective.

"Here, Detective," Francis tells her. "I have disconnected these items so you can carry them. They aren't too heavy, and will allow you to take your walk outside."

Kate's eyes widen in surprise, as she now wonders if the strange woman is a mind-reader amongst all of her other apparent talents.

"Outside?" he questions, his eyes growing wider, showing the nervousness there.

"Yes, Castle," Kate tells him. "We both could use some fresh air – you in particular. Aren't you tired of staying inside four walls?"

"I'm tired of a lot of things, Beckett," he offers, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, a fresh paint of regret spreads across his face. He sees the hurt in the woman holding him up, and he quickly tries to rectify the situation.

"I'm sorry, Beckett. That sounded much harsher than I feel," he tells her, as a smile crosses his face. He realizes that he is fresher, his thoughts are clearer. Yeah, he's still drugged up but just the fact that he could recognize that his words hurt the detective means he is coming out of the fog. The realization isn't lost on Kate Beckett either.

"You seem . . . better," she muses, the hurt not completely hidden.

"Only slept a couple of hours," he tells her. "That has to be good news that I'm not sleeping the entire day away."

"Don't get too far ahead of yourself," she half-kids, bringing a smile to both of their faces. The first in many days. It is not lost on either of them.

The walk is slow, through the hallway into the small, open living area. Kate maneuvers them around the furniture, and to the front door when she hears the nurse's voice behind them.

"Don't take him past the first line of trees, Detective," Francis calls out. "I'd hate for either of you to walk into the surprises I have planted there."

Kate nods in understanding, while Castle gives her a baffled and questioning look.

"Booby traps," Kate tells him. "Evidently, our medical operative is exactly that, with emphasis on the word 'operative'."

"Many skills," Castle remarks, as he focuses on simply putting one foot in front of the other, leaning on Kate as they cross the threshold of the doorway leading outside the cabin. The fresh, spring air hits him like a wave of ocean water; it is both startling and reviving; both painful and exhilarating.

"Well, as your father said," Kate continues. "He has many . . . resources."

She leads him, step by step, across the grassy path, careful of each step as they head toward the line of trees Diane Francis has warned them about. His eyes are on the ground, making sure each of his steps are sure before finally bringing his eyes up to take in the surroundings. It is a beautiful setting. Calm. Peaceful.

"You grew up out here?" he asks.

"No, I didn't grow up here, but this is a place we visited often," she replies. "Three, sometimes four times a year we would come here – my parents and I – just to get away from the city. Sometimes they'd let me bring friends. But more often than not, it was just the three of us."

"Good memories?" he asks, now slightly wincing from the exertion. She tightens her grip underneath him, now struggling to both hold him up and carry the medical monitoring equipment.

"The best," she tells him, her voice calm and focused as her eyes staring at the large swinging bench that hangs from the tall, monstrous tree now only ten feet away. His eyes travel up to the large, sturdy branch that houses the two ropes hanging downward. The seat – the bench – of the swing is easily six feet long and two feet deep.

"Exactly how many of your friends fit on that contraption?" he asks with a small smile. A smile that is returned to him. A smile that now flashes years of memories for the detective.

"Our record was five," she chuckles, staring at the enormous swing.

"A young Kate Beckett with pigtails," he muses. "That had to have been a sight."

"They were happy days, to be sure," she agrees. "Water balloon fights, ice cream fights, wild acorn fights . . . they all ended here at the swing," she smiles.

"Uh . . . what kid throws perfectly good ice cream," Castle wonders aloud.

"Weren't you ever a kid, Castle?" she asks, and this time it is her turn to bite her tongue, figuratively. She doesn't know much about his childhood, but she knows it couldn't have been easy. Growing up a child of a single mother during those years – with the mother being an aspiring actress on Broadway . . . no, those years couldn't have been easy. She has wondered – many times – if his casual, carefree humor was a natural trait, or one acquired out of necessity.

"My turn to apologize," she tells him softly, and he merely grunts as they finally reach the swing. His legs are slightly trembling now. So much for feeling better. He reaches out with his free left hand to stabilize himself on one of the ropes, causing the hanging bench to swing wildly.

Kate grabs the other rope, and the swinging bench quickly comes to a stop as she lays the medical apparatus on the ground in front of them. She turns to help him sit, and after a couple of tries, he is able to execute a controlled fall backward onto the swinging bench. She bends to picks up the monitoring apparatus and places it to his right, just outside the swinging bench. She walks in front of him, and slowly sits next to him. She gazes back toward the patio porch, lost in memories once again. They are quiet for a few minutes, as Castle struggles to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. Kate recognizes the struggle, and simply sits with him, watching his chest expand and contract, the emotions evident on his face. She marvels at the face she is now so familiar with, chiseled out of stone, expressive eyes dancing. She smiles as she realizes that it has been since before the shooting that she has seen that gleam in his eyes.

She leans back into the bench seat of the swing, and kicking her leg onto the ground, she sets them in motion. She repeats this every few seconds.

Another minute of solitude and gentle motion passes before he speaks.

"Why are you here?" he asks finally. She has to think about the question for a moment, because the answer seems so obvious. It's her family cabin. It's where she has brought him for safety. As if reading her mind, he clarifies his question.

"I know this is your place . . . your father's place," he continues. "But why are you here? With me? I mean obviously, I need medical attention. And Nurse Francis . . . well, that's what she's here for. But why are you still here? Why aren't you back in –"

"Maybe I have no intention of leaving you here with Hot Lips Houlihan back there," she interrupts with a wink, managing to grab another smile from her writer, her partner these past few years.

"Need I remind you," she tells him, becoming more serious now, "that someone is out to kill you, Castle. You were the target. Not me. So until I know you are safe, I'm staying with you."

"But Beckett," he begins his argument. "If someone really is after me, then I don't want you here. I don't want your blood –"

"My blood is already on your hands in more ways than you realize, Rick," she tells him, not allowing him to finish his thought. He notices her use of his first name, always wondering what it means . . . if anything at all. He's done a fine job of trying to read things that aren't there during these past few years. And look where it has gotten him. Shot up, recuperating in a remote cabin, his daughter shot and injured and kidnapped . . .

"If someone comes, if someone get to you, it will mean they already went through me," she tells him evenly. "That's the only way this is going to work."

He tries another approach.

"Why here? Why this cabin?" he asks.

"Because it is secluded," she replies. "It is remote, and the only other person who knows about it is safely tucked away somewhere down south. So you're safe, for now. Until Smith calls again."

"Smith?" he asks, now turning his head to face her. "That's the guy who called you before?"

"Yes," she replies, leaving it at that.

"Who you believe is working with the people behind your mother's murder," he continues.

"That's what your father believes," she remarks, staring deeply into his eyes, not daring to break contact now.

"And you believe him?" he asks.

"You and I wouldn't be here if I didn't," she replies, so matter-of-factly. "We'd be safe in a real hospital somewhere."

"That's my point," he asks. "If he is who you say he is . . . who he says he is . . . why aren't I in a hospital? Wouldn't I be better there? If . . . if my father really is who you say he is, couldn't he have secreted you and I away – like you said he did for Mother? Like he did for your dad?"

"Yes," she replies, now ready to drop the other shoe. She hopes it doesn't permanently damage their already fragile relationship. "But then these people would never find us."

She knows the man is a poker player. She knows he plays with his rich author friends and powerful mayor friend. But right now, his eyes are doing anything but playing poker. They give his thoughts – his disgust, his feeling of yet another betrayal – away in an instant.

"Hold the phone, dammit," he hisses, grabbing his chest instinctively. "You _want_ them to find us?"

"Your father does, yes," she replies softly.

"But . . . but why?" he asks, totally confused for a few seconds before realization dawns on him. He simply sits back, turning his face away from hers to stare off into the distance.

"Because he wants to end it, here and now," she tells him. "He says this is the best way, when they think we are disadvantaged."

"But we are disadvantaged –"

"No, we are not," she replies. "We will know –"

"This is the best way? With me a sitting duck? With me as bait?"

"No," she tells him forcefully, surprising him as she takes his chin in her hand, and forces him to turn back to her.

"With _us_ as bait, Rick. You and me."

Her words, spoken so softly but fiercely, chill him. He knows Kate Beckett. He knows how wonderful, how charming, how loyal she can be. But he also knows that she can become the definition of tunnel-vision when it comes to her mother's murder. It leaves him wondering whose plan this really is . . . is it Hunt's plan . . . or is it her plan? Would she willingly use him – injured as he is – as bait to draw out her mother's killers? He closes his eyes, not really wanting to consider the answer.

Her words open his eyes, a stinging slap of reality.

"You want to find Alexis," she tells him. "We need to know who we are dealing with. We are bait, Rick. But not to find my mother's killer . . . or killers. Right now, this is just about finding out who shot you, who shot Alexis . . . and getting them out here. Once we get them here . . . and according to Diane and the little toys she has placed out there . . . we will know when they are here."

He nods his head, then throws his head backwards, staring at the sky. The cool breeze feels good on his face, against his body. He grips the rope of the swing for balance when suddenly Kate interlocks their arms, allowing each of them to stabilize the other as each holds on to one rope.

"This is about Alexis, Rick. Nothing more," she tells him softly. "I promise you."

Another few seconds pass in silence before he speaks again.

"That's all well and good," he tells her, closing his eyes again, taking deep breaths. "But it still doesn't explain why you are here. If someone is coming, then why isn't my father here? Why doesn't he have agents out here in hiding . . . or does he? Is that what's going on?"

"I'm afraid not, Rick," she responds. "It's just you and me. And Nurse Francis," she adds almost as an afterthought.

"You could get killed," he argues. "This isn't making any sense. Why is it just you out here if someone is going to be coming? What is my father doing?"

"Consider it two separate strategies, Castle," she replies, morphing into something more officious, more professional. "One strategy is to kind of a search and destroy mission. Look for who took Alexis, and get her back. The other strategy is more passive . . . let them find us. Either way, the goal is to get Alexis back."

"Again . . . you could get killed," he tells her. "You don't need to do this. There are other people –"

"Yes, I do," she tells him. "I have no choice."

He smirks – the sarcastic one that she really doesn't care for – as he gazes at her.

"We all have a choice, Beckett," he tells her. "You don't have to be here. You could –"

"I don't have to be here, Castle," she tells him, with a soft force behind her words. "I could never leave."

"Kate," he mumbles, searching for the right words. Suddenly all of the anger at secrets being kept somehow isn't important anymore. They are in a pickle right now, for certain. Sure, they've been in predicaments before, but always when both of them could be counted on. Right now, he's useless. Totally useless. If anything happens, if anyone is truly coming, then she has to fight for both of them.

"Two of us getting shot has been enough," he continues. "If you really think someone is coming, then –"

"I could never leave you," she repeats, and he watches her lips purse, as she struggles with her words. He can tell there is a battle waging within her head. The battle's ending is just as shocking.

"I love you," she tells him, and suddenly his world blurs, darkens . . . and then blackness.

.

 **A/N:** I'm trying to get Chapter 14 up before we leave. If not, then I will post the next chapter this coming weekend. Thanks to all for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

**Glint – Chapter 14**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 3:32 p.m., At an apartment high rise in New York City**_

.

"Wake up, Major," Jackson Hunt barks, rousing his military friend out of a twenty minute combat sleep. It's an exercise that the major has learned to perfection during his service to the country – and something he has taught his CIA friend as well. Both men are used to taking turns, grabbing fifteen to twenty minutes of shut-down, and waking up feeling refreshed, as if they'd slept for hours.

"Game time?" Major Terrance Cooper asks, quickly blinking away the sleep and immediately fully awakened.

"You could say that," Hunt tells him. "Our man just pulled up into his spot."

Sitting in their vehicle – windshield suitably darkened to hide their faces – the two men have been waiting for the Infiniti to arrive for the past hour. Matching the license plates as it passed by and parked, Hunt had suppressed a patient smile.

They allow the man to get out of his car and glance around. He's no novice. The perp carries himself with a military bearing – both men see this immediately.

"He won't be easy," Cooper mutters.

"I don't want him to be easy," Hunt remarks, drawing a knowing glance from his partner. They allow him to open the door leading from the garage building into the small corridor where the elevator is housed before moving.

"Give him time to get upstairs into his apartment," Hunt reminds his partner – and himself.

"I know, Stone," Cooper replies easily. They walk casually to the garage door, the natural darkness bathing both men in comfortable silence. Cooper walks to the pillar on the side of the door and removes a small camera he had placed there earlier. He rewinds and inspects the feed for a moment before speaking.

"Code is 44917," he tells Hunt, who quickly punches in the numbers, and is rewarded with the sound of the door unlocking, granting them access.

"Let's go," Hunt says quickly as he walks through the door, with Cooper in tow. They stop at the elevator and punch the twenty-third floor. Less than ten seconds later, their elevator car opens in greeting and the two men climb aboard. They remain quiet, each lost in their own thoughts, visualizing the inevitable conflict that awaits them upstairs. Although formidable in their own right, neither man is exactly a spring chicken. They know they won't be able to play around with this guy. And if there is more than one of them upstairs – if he already has someone waiting for him – then that just makes this all the more difficult.

"No matter," Hunt thinks aloud. This is for Alexis, after all.

"What's that?" Cooper asks, glancing over to his friend.

'Nothing," Hunt replies. "Just thinking out loud."

"Think quieter," Cooper remarks, his gaze now moving back toward the numbers lighting up above them, above the door, as the elevator rises.

A few seconds later, the elevator door opens, and the two men move in unison.

"We don't know how many are inside," Hunt whispers. "We have to leave at least one alive."

"Affirmative," is the only reply from the larger black man as they quickly approach the door to apartment 23-4A. From this point on, both men are in silent mode. Years of working together have taught them to anticipate one another. Without a word or a glance at his partner, Major Cooper goes high, kicking the door in, entering with two long steps – his weapon up high and scoping. Beneath him, Jackson Hunt has taken the low road inside, rolling quickly and coming to one knee – weapon ready to fire.

There is only one person visible in the room, and unfortunately for the inhabitant of this high rise home, he has allowed his guard to drop far too quickly upon entering his home – as Hunt surmised he would. Give a man a minute or two inside his own home, and his guard naturally lessens. It's a lesson both Hunt and Cooper learned long, long ago.

Still, he's a professional, and – after two clicks of time of shock – he is now moving quickly for his weapon, praying against all odds for speed – and seconds – he knows he does not have.

Hunt's first shot rings through the man's hand, causing him to fall backwards, yelping. The whispered weapon is pointed at his head before he knows it, and suddenly comes across his forehead, knocking him into merciful sleep.

Cooper is already ignoring these events, as he quickly makes his way through the rest of the apartment, canvasing their surroundings and ensuring their privacy. When he returns, he comes upon Hunt, who is on his knees, wrapping the injured man's hand to staunch the bleeding. Wordlessly, he helps Hunt prop their now-hostage into a dining room chair as Hunt takes out a large roll of black tape. The two men work quickly, tying the unconscious man to the chair, icing their homemade cake with a strip of tape across the man's mouth.

Both men then quickly split up again, this time taking stock of the apartment, looking at pictures, opening cabinets, rifling through drawers as they search for something – anything – that might tell them who this man is, and what he knows about Alexis.

Sure, he's going to talk – of that they have no doubt. But before they awaken him, they want to find out as much as they can.

It takes less than three minutes before they are satisfied there is nothing here to learn here outside of what will come out of their hostage's mouth.

"Wake him up," Hunt orders, his voice gravelly and taking on a sinister tone.

Smelling salts under the nose do the trick, and Sleepy Beauty awakens with a start. As soon as his eyes open, he feels the pain in his hand, which is only exaggerated when he focuses his eyesight on the two men – both dressed in black – that sit in front of him.

Both Hunt and Cooper – realizing they are dealing with a professional – both comprehend the very instant that their hostage makes up his mind. Cooper rushes him quickly, ripping off the tape from the man's mouth and painfully – brutally – jabbing his large handgun into the man's mouth sideways, preventing him from biting down on the tooth capsule that would take Alexis' location with him into the darkness.

Hunt seems to ignore the proceedings – completely confident in Cooper's ability to take care of the situation – and he begins to rifle through the man's pockets. It takes a little time, given that the man is tied to the chair. But once he has the man's wallet, and the man's phone . . . it becomes all too easy.

He turns to the major just in time to see the needle plunge into the man's constricted arm, as Cooper maintains the pressure inside the man's mouth.

"Says his name is Adam Benton," Hunt tells his friend.

"We'll know soon enough if that is the truth," Cooper replies affably.

"Scopolamine?" Hunt asks.

"Plus a little extra candy I like to use," Cooper smiles. Normally used for motion sickness, scopolamine was found to have an interesting side effect with pregnant women in labor in the early 20th century. Early physicians found that those women became unusually susceptible when the depressant was administered. It acted like . . . well, a truth serum of sorts, causing disorientation and confusion, along with amnesia of current events.

"How long?" Hunt asks, now gazing through pictures on the cell phone of their captive, while staring at the military identification card in his other hand.

"Not long," Cooper replies, glancing at his watch.

"Special Forces," Hunt mutters, his mind now clearly conflicted. Regardless of sides taken right at this moment, this man in the chair was once a soldier on the same side. Neither man is too keen on taking this kind of life so casually, no matter the current events.

"So . . ."

"So we ask some questions, and then decide," Hunt tells him.

Cooper uses his fingers to widen the eyes of the now heavily drugged captive, watching carefully as the eyes begin to roll backward.

"He's ready," Cooper remarks, standing quickly to allow his partner to slide into position to begin the interrogation.

"What is your name, soldier?" Hunt begins, using the military approach to hopefully bypass the current mission in the man's now foggy mind.

"Benton, Adam," the ex-Special Forces man replies, his speech slightly slurred, his head bobbing back and forth trying to regain focus – trying to regain control.

"Strong man," Cooper mutters, as Hunt simply nods his head.

"Why did you take Alexis Castle?" Hunt asks.

"The redhead? Sweet!" Benton replies groggily, totally unaware that with three words, he has sealed his fate.

Hunt feels the pressure – heavily – of Coopers large hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, Stone," Cooper tells him.

"No worries," Hunt whispers, allowing deep sharp breaths to punch out, emphasizing each breath. He'll get his information – and then some.

"Why did you take her?" Hunt repeats.

"Orders, man," Benton smiles, his head falling forward. "Was told to pick her up, take her to the boat."

"The boat?" Hunt asks.

"Yeah, man," Benton replies, still unsuccessfully trying to focus his eyesight. "Nice boat, too. Cool toys. Lots of food."

That last statement causes a bit of the strain holding Jackson Hunt together to wane, almost like a release of air from a balloon. Lots of food means she is probably alive. It means they want her alive – at least for a while.

"Where is this nice boat, Adam?" Hunt asks, continuing the interrogation.

"In the Sound," Benton answers, his words even more slurred now. "Off New Rochend"

"New Rochelle," Cooper corrects the man with a whisper in Hunt's ear. Hunt smiles and nods his head with satisfaction.

"Easy enough to find," Hunt decides. Now – for the larger question.

"Who?" he asks. "Who ordered the young girl taken? And why? Why was she shot?"

"Hey, _I_ didn't shoot her," Benton argues, now sounding more like a drunken wino than a prisoner under questioning. "I just drove, man. Clint did the pick-up."

"And where can I find Clint?" Hunt continues, his voice soothing.

"Out in the sound. I already told you." Benton replies, with a smirk. "He gets babysitting duty."

"He's on the boat with the girl?" Hunt asks, the edge creeping back into his voice as he considers the possibilities.

"Ha! He wishes!" Benton remarks with a laugh, then shakes his head again, trying to clear the banjos wailing there.

"He's in the other boat," Benton continues. "Good shooter, too. She ain't going nowhere."

Cooper recognizes that Benton is going downhill now, the drug fully kicked in. He's not even complaining about his blood-soaked hand.

"Got enough?" he asks his friend.

"I think so," Hunt replies. "Still don't know who's behind all of this, though." He turns his attention back to Adam Benton.

"You wouldn't happen to know who is giving the orders, do you?" he asks Benton.

"No, man, I sure don't," Benton replies, still with a silly smile gracing his face.

"That's too bad," Hunt remarks, as he takes out his silenced weapon once again. The gun barks once – a whisper really – as the headshot launches Adam Benton backwards.

Major Terrance Cooper is already in motion, headed toward the front door. He turns to wait for his friend, who now stands over the very dead body of Adam Benton. His eyes are cold and calculating as Jackson Hunt pumps a second, and then a third shot into the chest of the deceased captive. He takes a deep breath before moving away, walking toward the door that Cooper now holds open for their departure.

"Feel better?" Cooper asks him.

Jackson Hunt stares at the Major for a second or two – his eyes still blazing with cold fury as he thinks about this man with his granddaughter. He turns, extending his arm and pumps a final shot, this one landing square between the man's legs.

"I do now," he tells the military man as he walks past him into the corridor. Major Cooper simply offers a glance backward, painting the sign of the cross across his own chest as he closes the door.

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 4:45 p.m., On a boat in the Sound of New Rochelle**_

.

Alexis Castle is finally relaxing – if this can be considered relaxation. She lies – eyes closed – on the large bed in the nicely adorned stateroom on the cruiser. She has – for the past couple of hours – simply laid down to allow her body – her head, mostly – to grow accustomed the constant motion. Now, as she had hoped, the gentle rocking motion has become comfortable. Her head still aches, but she has kept the lights out, and the silence along with the continual motion has actually become soothing.

If she can just stop the ringing in her ears, if she can just get her bearings, perhaps she can make a break for it.

Suddenly, the noise from the wall across from the bed erupts, as the monitor there lights up.

"Rise and shine, sleepy-head," the distorted voice orders. "You've rested enough. Time to get something to eat. We need to keep our energy up, young lady."

There is something about the voice – no, it's not familiar. She can't tell anything about the identity. But somehow, the voice seems . . . well, almost angry. Which is confusing. Why would anyone be _angry_ with her?

"I'm not very hungry," Alexis remarks, not moving. It dawns on her that whoever is watching her has a clear view of her in the bed. They can see her anywhere here in the stateroom. So much for privacy. She unconsciously takes a glance down at her body – just to make sure she is fully dressed.

"You're in no position to argue, young lady," the voice reminds her.

"And you're in no position to force me to do anything," Alexis shoots back, quickly remembering the other boat in the distance . . . the boat with the sniper on board. Perhaps her last statement of bravado isn't quite as true as she wishes it would be. No matter, she's tired of being the patsy.

"I'm tired, my head hurts, and I am dizzy as hell," she mutters aloud, for her own courage if nothing else.

"Oh, Alexis," the voice now laughs, and the distortion is more than a little frightening. "Do you need another reminder of who is in charge here? Of exactly how helpless you really are?"

The monitor goes blank, driving the room back into silence.

Alexis' response is to pull the covers over her head, the pillow atop each for further pseudo protection. Her mind escapes to one of her favorite stories read to her as a child by her father. She thinks of five different Chinese brothers, each of whom performs an amazing, miraculous feat in order to save one brother from execution by the townspeople. She smiles under the covers as the familiar story replays itself as a movie in her mind. She thinks of one of the brothers swallowing the ocean around her, his cheeks abnormally huge, filled with sea water, which allows her to walk along muddy but somewhat dry land back to the shore where she thanks the brother with a kiss on the cheek. He turns and smiles – if he could – before bending over and opening his mouth, allowing the ocean water to rush back into place.

She smiles with the memory until the explosion just outside reignites the ringing in her head. The boat lists sideways, then rocks and back forth for a moment. Alexis bravely stays silent, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain that threatens to overtake her. She decides to focus, for a few minutes, instead on the pain in her hip. Anything to get away from the ringing in her head, and the now suddenly very uncomfortable rocking motion of the watercraft.

Just as suddenly, the voice returns.

"Alexxxxxxxis," the voice taunts, as the shaded figure on the monitor returns.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are . . . which is right there under the covers, girl," the voice adds, the menace clear now even through the distortion.

Alexis, deciding not to push things further, slowing brings the pillow down, and the covers soon follow.

"That's a good girl," the voice tells her. "Now, get up, get something to eat, before I tell my friend outside your boat to make the next little rocket shot a little closer."

Something happens at this point, inside the young redhead's mind. She holds none of the cards, this is true. She is completely in their hands – this much is also true. But the other thing she knows, she realizes, is that all they are doing right now is threatening. Because she is so vulnerable, they could take her out any time they choose – whoever 'they' are. The fact that they haven't means that they need her alive. And while she is alone out here, she is at their mercy.

In a moment of crazy courage, she makes her mind up. If she is going to go out, it is going to be on her own terms, seeing her enemy face to face.

She walks slowly to the monitor, her eyes quickly scanning the stateroom when she finds what she is looking for. She grabs the lamp, pulling the plug from the wall as she yanks it off the bed stand.

"Come and get me," she offers with a courageous grin.

She smashes the base of the lamp against the monitor on the wall, smashing the face of the monitor, and driving the room back into blessed silence.

Somewhere in New York, a surprised and now very agitated face frowns at the monitor on the table.

"Well, that was damn unexpected," the voice – now clear and non-distorted – mutters aloud.

Fingers quickly punch in a number on the mobile phone, as the device is placed against one ear. There is one ring, then a second, before he answers.

"What is it Evelyn?" the voice from the nation's capital asks.

"We have a problem with the girl," the widow of Captain Roy Montgomery replies. "I think it is time to send someone to have a more forceful conversation with her."

.

 **A/N:** The next chapter will be posted this coming weekend, where we begin to find out exactly how, and why, Evelyn Montgomery is involved."


	15. Chapter 15

**Glint – Chapter 15**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 5:02 p.m., At an upscale colonial home in Washington, D.C.**_

.

"Interesting," the tall man with what appear to be perpetually searching, steel blue eyes remarks. "Give me a moment to get back with you, Evelyn," he says as he disconnects the call and places his cell phone carefully atop the coffee table beside him. He sits comfortably, wearing dark blue slacks and an even darker maroon polo shirt, his legs crossed as he stares at his wife who is lying on the sofa across from him, watching television. His single word has caught her attention.

"What's interesting?" Elizabeth Bracken asks her husband, as she sits up on one elbow, brushing long hair from her eyes.

"That was Evelyn Montgomery," the Senator replies. "It seems she is having a few . . . issues . . . with the young Castle girl."

"You can't be serious," his wife chuckles. "Evie is one of our best operatives. I find it hard to believe that she is having difficulties with a simple teenager."

"Evidently she is," her husband mutters, almost under his breath. "And perhaps Alexis Castle is no simple teenager," he continues, knowing the subtle sarcasm being employed by his wife

Elizabeth Bracken's reply is an eye roll of sorts. She was against the kidnapping, and had previously warned Bracken that including the young woman in their little game could have unexpected consequences. As if reading her mind, Bracken interrupts her train of thought before she can drop one of her "I told you so" remarks.

"I know you warned me about her," he admits.

"These teenagers today . . . they are just different, Will," Elizabeth counters, ignoring his pathetic attempt at a pseudo-apology.

"They are – by their own nature – unpredictable," Elizabeth continues. "A combination of naivete and fearlessness . . . who knows how they will respond . . ."

She lets the thought hang out there, waiting for her husband to explain this sudden change of demeanor, caused by his phone conversation with the widow of the late Captain Roy Montgomery.

"I take it Evie doesn't know where this last piece of evidence is," she remarks.

"I am guessing not yet," the Senator tells his wife, with a small frown. "But Evelyn has never let us down. I am confident she will find this, in due time."

"I've known Evie a lot longer than you," Elizabeth concurs. "She will find it, sooner or later. She won't let _me_ down."

"I know, love," he smiles softly. "It was sheer brilliance on your part to have me insert her into Roy's life, all those years ago."

"It just made sense," the beautiful blonde woman remarks, now pulling herself up into a sitting position, placing her feet on the floor, and reaching for the glass tumbler on the coaster atop the table.

"We never liked the idea of someone out there – especially a cop, for God's sake – who knew the full story . . . who knew what you had done and could run his mouth," she reminisces as she takes a slow sip of the strong bourbon.

"And I couldn't just take Roy out, because I knew he had evidence against me," Bracken continues their conversation. "I didn't know how much he had, or how detailed it was . . . or who he had shared it with. But he was always a bright guy . . . smart young cop like that would have kept the goods somewhere."

"Or shared them with someone," Elizabeth muses. They have had this conversation countless times during the past decade-plus. "No one is stupid enough to jump into the water with sharks without protection."

"And Roy was never stupid," Bracken adds.

The two are silent for a moment, as both are lost in their own thoughts. The Senator considers the events of all those years ago, which introduced Evelyn Montgomery into his 'family'. When Bracken married Sheila Elizabeth Keller, back before he was in the D.A.'s office, he knew he was pulling one beautiful, smart woman into his orbit. He also knew that – beauty aside – the woman was a snake in the weeds – eager to play covert games . . . and damn good at them.

Elizabeth's immediate solution to her husband's 'Roy problem' had been to introduce her long-time friend and fellow reptile, Evelyn Harrison, to the young police officer. Playing her role well, Evelyn was an immediate hit with the new cop. And despite her best efforts to subtly draw the desired information out, Roy Montgomery – in all these years – never told her what he had, or where it was. Certainly not when they were dating, and – surprisingly – not even after they married. _Especially_ not after they had married. Sure, the young cop confided his role in those dark events from the past – but never shared the particulars. He did not want her involved with these people, and so he kept Evelyn away from Bracken. As far as the future captain of detectives was concerned, Evelyn Montgomery never met William Bracken.

Of course, he never understood that he was merely a pawn in a chess game being strategized by experts, being moved around the board with relative ease.

He never learned that his wife was best friends – from college days – with the ambitious future politician's wife.

As with many well-laid plans, however, the one thing that Elizabeth Bracken never considered was the possibility that her 'plant' might actually fall hard for the likable Roy Montgomery. As it turns out, Montgomery was fun, hard-working . . . and most of all, loving and respectful toward his wife. Evelyn played her role for the Brackens well . . . until one day, it was no longer just a role. She found that she no longer had to pretend to care for the man.

Then when the children came . . . well, that was it. Roy was a good husband, and now a good father. Regardless of what transpired, she made sure that Roy was always safe from Bracken's fatal tendencies. She made sure they didn't kill Roy.

" _Don't worry, I can control him," she would always tell Bracken. "He isn't sharing everything with me – not out of distrust – but rather out of love. He doesn't want me to know anything that could eventually – in his mind – hurt me. But I can keep him from telling anyone else, as well."_

" _For his sake, I hope you are right," Bracken would always reply. "Your feelings for the man will never stop me from taking him out, if you are wrong."_

Yes, Evelyn had grown fond of her husband . . . even loved him in her own way. She didn't want to lose him. But more than that – she didn't want her children to lose their father. In the end, that's what it came down to. Even though she had grown to care for her husband, those feelings were not enough. If it came down to it, she would easily part ways with him. She just preferred that the girls didn't go through something like that.

So, she would keep him in check. And it worked, for all these years, until the last few weeks.

For that – Evelyn Montgomery blames the detective that her husband appeared to care for just a wee bit too much. It made sense that Montgomery would make sure that Kate Beckett came to his precinct. Having the daughter of Johanna Beckett coming a cop was problem enough. Was it as she always said? Was it as simple as her wanting to find justice for other people? Or was it her way – smart and strategic – to put herself into position to learn what really happened to her mother?

Regardless, it made sense that – if she was going to be a cop – then Roy would look for a way to keep an eye on her, to keep her away from that particular case. But lately, Evelyn Montgomery had begun to wonder. And she certainly was tired of hearing about the detective over the dinner table. When he made it to dinner.

" _Beckett, this . . . Beckett that . . . Beckett, Beckett, Beckett . . ."_

It just became too much. For that reason alone, when Roy stepped too far out of bounds, she found it easier to finally part ways with him . . . permanently. Roy Montgomery had been – all these years – getting payments from Bracken to stay silent . . . to stay alive. And to be honest, Evelyn kind of liked the extra income for the family. It afforded then a lifestyle somewhat better than you'd expect from a police captain. And they were smart about their spending, indulging privately, ensuring their splurges were not visible to the public at large.

However, all of that changed in the past couple of weeks, when it became obvious that Montgomery – either through guilt from his past, or too much affection for the damn detective – for some reason, all of the sudden, Roy decided to do the unthinkable. He began to move against Bracken. He even told Evelyn that it could cost him his life. Never had there been spoken such prophetic words. She told Bracken then and there that it was time to take her husband out. A move that further indebted the Bracken couple to their loyal friend and ally.

Bracken brushes these thoughts away, as he takes a long swallow from his taller glass of bourbon, matching his wife with a smile as he picks up his mobile phone from the table.

"Care to listen in?" he asks.

"Certainly," his wife replies, now standing up and walking toward the large chair where her husband sits. As always, she slowly slides into place on his lap as his arm wraps around her waist. She places her head along his shoulder – an ironic pose for the couple given where this conversation is heading. The phone rings twice before the call is connected, and the Senator immediately puts the call on speaker.

"Okay, Evelyn," he begins. "I'm back. And I have Liz on the line."

"Hello, Lizzie," Evelyn offers comfortably.

"Hi Evie," the politician's wife replies affably. "How are things?"

"Interesting," the recent widow replies.

"That's exactly what Will said," Elizabeth remarks, thinking back to her husband's words from just a few minutes ago.

"So what's going on Evelyn?" Senator Bracken asks, having given the two women a few seconds to share their greetings.

"I was having a video session with young Alexis -" Montgomery begins before she is interrupted.

"A one-way video session I assume . . ." Bracken offers testily.

"Of course," Evelyn replies, somewhat insulted. "I'm not stupid –"

"My mistake, Evelyn," Bracken replies quickly. "I meant no disrespect. I'm just wondering what you mean when you say you have a problem."

"The girl apparently has grown some courage over the evening," Evelyn tells the power couple. "She has tired of the game . . . broke the monitor . . . actually did it during our call."

"Really?" Elizabeth Bracken questions, the respect evident in her voice. "Shot in the ass, with a concussion . . . that's impressive."

"Indeed. She told me to come on out after her," Evelyn says with a chuckle of respect as well.

"Unpredictable," Elizabeth whispers into her husband's ear, drawing her lips away quickly as she knows he is ready to brush her away. She jumps off from his lap with a grin, walking back to the small coffee table to retrieve her tumbler of bourbon, but not before he offers her a playful swipe across her hips.

"Know it all," he mutters to her before returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Bracken asks.

"Why, I'm going to grant the young woman her wish," Evelyn offers with a loud laugh, one that brings another sinister grin to the lips of Elizabeth Bracken. "She wants a visit . . . I'm going to give her one."

"Who are you thinking of sending?" Bracken asks.

"I was thinking about Jennings," Evelyn replies, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"Uh . . . isn't that a bit drastic?" Elizabeth offers with concern. "I mean, Jennings . . ."

"Jennings isn't known for being gentle," Bracken interjects. "Are you sure you want to send her?"

"The girl wants a visit . . . I want it to be memorable," Evelyn replies evenly. "She needs a reminder of who is in charge here."

"We don't want her dead, Evie," Elizabeth tells her. "At least not yet . . . not until this all plays out."

"Send Roberts," Bracken suggests. "He has a bit more discipline. I don't want the girl dead yet. What about –"

"That's not all," Evelyn interrupts. "There's more."

"There's more?" Bracken asks, his tone now noticeably darker.

"My house," Evelyn replies.

"What about your house?" he asks.

"It's gone," she remarks. "Blown up."

"What?" Bracken exclaims with surprise. He knows what this means. Evelyn had shared with him her plans to plant explosives at the house, triggered by pressure sensors in the backyard.

"You had a visitor?" he asks.

"Visitors . . . plural," she remarks. "Knocked on the front door, then went around to the backyard."

"That's unfortunate," the Senator replies, now pulling himself to his feet, as he begins pacing as he always does when he starts recalibrating his plans.

"Who were they?" he asks.

"That's the bad news," Evelyn tells him. "Esposito and Ryan."

"The detectives?!" he bellows, causing Evelyn to pull the phone from her ear.

"What the hell were they –"

"I don't know, William," Evelyn answers before he can finish the question. "The video picked them up before being blown with the house. Damn, that was a nice house, too," she remarks with regret.

"Won't that cause questions?" the Senator asks. "I don't like the –"

"It might cause questions, you're right," Evelyn interrupts. "But we don't know what kind of evidence Roy had. We don't know who he gave it to. What we _do_ know, however, is that if he kept the evidence at the house – well, it is not there anymore."

Both Brackens have to nod their heads at the wisdom – and ruthlessness – of the woman's thinking.

"Did the detectives survive?" Elizabeth asks.

"I don't know," Evelyn replies. "I hope so . . . they are nice fellows. But the bigger question is what were they doing there? Clearly it wasn't a social visit to make sure I am okay."

"Agreed," Elizabeth adds. "Not with them crawling through your backyard."

"So the question is . . . were they acting on their own?" Bracken asks, the question obvious.

"With that bitch Beckett involved?" Evelyn replies with clear contempt in her voice concerning the detective. "What do you think?"

"You're probably right," Bracken thinks out loud. "You still don't think that Roy gave anything to Beckett before he died?"

"Not a chance," Evelyn answers. "First – if she had the evidence, there is no reason to send her two lap dogs to my house," she begins.

"True," Bracken admits.

"Second," Evelyn continues, "Roy had years – _years_ – to give whatever he had to Beckett. So, if he wanted her to have it, he would have done so years ago. But Roy told me on many occasions that if Beckett ever found out the who's and what's about all of that, he'd have to shoot her on the spot. She'd go off all half-cocked, getting people killed – herself included. So no, I don't think he gave it to her."

"Who then?" Elizabeth asks.

"If he gave it to anyone, he probably gave it to Castle," Bracken remarks, now fully engaged in the chess match.

"That's my take as well," Evelyn agrees.

"Then take him out," Bracken tells her, after a lengthy pause.

"Really?" Evelyn questions, clearly surprised – which surprises the Senator.

"Why the surprise?" he asks. "We already tried once."

"I know," Evelyn replies. "But he survived. Maybe that was the universe sending us a message. Anyway, I thought you kind of liked the writer."

"I do," he replies. "But I like a lot of people. Kill him. Use Greer. Or Maddox."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather use someone local?" Evelyn counters, now thinking through her own options. "You know Simmons would love a crack at –"

"Simmons is busy," Bracken interrupts. "And far too valuable to get his hands on this. Use one of our Ops fellows. That's why they're on the payroll."

Evelyn is about to comment, when Elizabeth chimes in – with news that Evelyn is thrilled to hear.

"But just in case, Evie," Elizabeth begins, "keep an eye on the detective as well. Have Smith tail her. Let's see if she is behind Esposito and Ryan snooping around."

"And if she is?" Evelyn questions, allowing herself a broad smile for the first time in a while.

"Then send Maddox to deal with her," Bracken interjects. The detective . . . she is formidable. Greer is tough, but he likes to play with his food. She is not one to be trifled with."

"Oh, I don't think she's that tough," Evelyn remarks, only to be corrected by her friend.

"Evie, don't let it become personal," Elizabeth warns. "Yes, your husband's fondness for the detective was . . . well, hell, I don't know exactly what it was. Perhaps it was nothing more than guilt over her mother's death. Still, don't allow her to become your blind spot, Evie. She could get lucky and take Greer out while he plays around. Maddox? Not a chance."

"Beckett . . . you know she's disappeared too, by the way," Evelyn reminds them.

"We know," Bracken agrees. "So find her. Use the Ops guys. They are good at this. But find her, dammit. Find her, and you most likely find the novelist. Find out if he has the evidence."

"And if he doesn't?" Roy Montgomery's widow asks.

"I already told you. Take him out."

"Okay," Evelyn breathes a long breath, exhaling loudly.

"And Evelyn?" the Senator adds, almost as an afterthought.

"Yes?"

"Make sure Beckett watches," Bracken tells her, his voice cold. "I want her to see him die."

.

 **A/N:** Sorry this got posted so late. Things are going to start to heat up on all fronts, now, so the story will start to move quickly. Thanks to all who are reading, and for your comments. Now we know the players involved . . . let's see how this turns out.

Oh, and Happy Halloween to everyone. Handing out candy has become as fun as it was as a kid, trick-or-treating. Not sure exactly when – or how – that happened!


	16. Chapter 16

**Glint – Chapter 16**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** So, first of all, I know I owe an apology to everyone for the lack of timely updates. Life just kind of happened – in a good way – and I just haven't had time to read or write very much in the past few weeks. I actually started this chapter a couple of weeks ago on the commuter train between work and home, but got distracted by those sitting around me looking over my shoulder to read. Sigh . . . Seriously, I can't make this stuff up!

Still, thank you for staying with this story, and for those of you who have dropped subtle, not-so-subtle, and the occasional threatening reminders to update. All are greatly appreciated.

Without further ado . . .

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 _ **Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 4:47 p.m., In upstate New York at Jim Beckett's cabin**_

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"Geesh, this son of a bitch is heavy," Diane Francis remarks, grunting as she and Detective Kate Beckett position themselves to lower Richard Castle back onto the bed in the guest room of the Beckett family cabin. Far heavier than Kate Beckett would have ever guessed, the two women have carried the unconscious man back from the swing set along the first line of trees from the cabin's front door, breaking a sweat in the process.

Kate Beckett is struggling, both physically and emotionally, as Richard Castle's response to her sudden emotional awakening turned out to be a swan dive backwards off the swing set. Now Kate finds herself sporting a growing bump on the back of her own head from where she collided with the ground, as she had launched herself underneath the novelist as he fell backward.

"Well, he's not exactly a small man," Kate offers as she lifts his legs a bit higher, noting the dead weight, to swing them onto the bed. The medical apparatus to monitor his heart rate and oxygen sits atop his groin as they move him.

"Not a small man in what particular way, Detective?" the nurse smirks in response. She doesn't give Kate time for a retort.

"That must have been one hell of a conversation out there," Francis smiles knowingly. "What, did you knock him out with your stunning repertoire?"

"Let's just say that . . ."

Kate quickly changes gears, shaking the thoughts away. The CIA woman's help provided aside, Kate doesn't know Diane Francis from the man in the moon – and she is not getting into this conversation right now. At least not with her. She's still trying to figure it out herself, wondering why she blurted out those always-and-ever-dangerous three words in the first place.

"Fainting is usually caused by reduced blood flow to the brain," Francis notes aloud, turning highly clinical, which is actually somewhat of a comfort to the detective at the moment.

"In Mr. Castle's case," Francis continues, "I suspect his heart rate, his heart rhythm became abnormal for some reason," she offers with a wink. "Either too slow or too fast. Or maybe his heart couldn't pump the blood adequately due to blocked blood flow. Or perhaps this was a reaction to the meds. But then again, he's been on the meds for a few days now. And he was fine when you two walked out of here, wasn't he?" she continues, smiling.

"Aside from the days-old surgery to correct a bullet to the chest, yeah, he was just peachy," Kate mutters under her breath, tiring of the wink-wink interrogation.

A minute later, the novelist is tucked safely back under the sheets, the banter between the women continuing unabated as Kate pulls the covers up just under his neck, while Diane Francis moves toward the wall to re-attach the portable monitoring equipment back to the stand. She bends, plugging the equipment back into the wall before turning to address the detective again.

"Sarcasm aside, Detective," she begins, "this isn't good. We don't need Mr. Castle passing out on us. I'm half wondering if we shouldn't call someone in," she idly wonders, barely under her breath, but still audible to Kate Beckett.

"Well, that makes sense to me," Kate concurs. "We should have already –"

"I was speaking out loud, and out of turn, Detective," Francis interrupts. "We have a plan. We stick to the plan. We can take care of him out here, as long as you don't try stopping his heart again. So . . . you're not going to tell me what happened out there?"

"Nope," Kate offers as a one word reply, popping the 'p' as she smiles. She glances down at the restless face of Richard Castle, replaying their conversation in her mind. His reaction to her unplanned declaration certainly wasn't the stuff of romance novels, for certain. Then again, perhaps her timing wasn't exactly the best either. The only way her timing could have been worse would have been had she blurted out the words back in the cemetery, with him atop her, bleeding out and drifting into unconsciousness.

Yeah, it could have been worse.

Still, in her defense, this new feeling . . . or at least an understanding of, a realization of these new feelings is completely new to her. As in 'mere days old' new.

In a perfect world, she would have spoken the words over a romantic dinner in the city. Or perhaps walking hand in hand along the streets of the city. Or standing in the elevator at the precinct, heading their separate ways after a long case. Anywhere but on a swing set at Dad's place with Castle in convalescence mode. But theirs has never been a perfect relationship. Oh sure, he'd say it was storybook for certain. But not perfect, and certainly not normal.

" _Since when have you done normal, Kate?"_ she mutters under her breath as the CIA nurse leaves the room, thankfully.

Falling for her mentor as a rookie cop? Check.

Falling for a co-worker on the force? Check.

Falling for another co-worker and flaunting that in the face of her then-sidekick novelist, even when suspecting that he might be developing feelings that were a bit more . . . serious? Yeah, check that one also, according to Javier.

Falling for a bike-riding surgeon? While suspecting that Castle's feelings were potentially deepening even further? Check that box, too.

Her right hand unconsciously finds his left hand, reaching underneath the covers to do so as she begins to wonder if he even believes her words, given current events. She squeezes and is surprised to find a subtle squeeze in return. She immediately glances upward toward his eyes, which are fluttering open.

" _Thank God,"_ she thinks to herself, secretly offering a prayer of thanks that he is okay. Truth be told, Nurse Francis' clinical dissertation on exactly why Castle may have fainted had been both a relief and a concern.

"Castle?" she questions softly. "Rick?"

His eyes blink, as they find hers.

"My God, you scared the hell out of me, Castle," she tells him.

"I . . . I could say the same of you," he offers, squinting against the bright light in the room. Kate instinctively stands and moves toward the wall to turn the lights off.

"Thanks," he tells her with a small half smile. "What happened?"

"You fainted," she tells him directly. "Trust me, Castle, if I'd known that was the quickest way to shut you up, I would have said those words long ago," she smirks, trying to bring levity to the situation.

"Really?" he asks, the surprise evident on his face. "You would have –"

"No, probably not," she admits. "I don't think I realized . . . exactly how I felt . . . how I feel . . . about you, not until a few days ago."

He closes his eyes, a small smile on his lips.

"So, I should be thanking my would-be assassin?" he asks.

"Don't be an ass, Castle," she warns.

"I've always felt one should be true to himself," he tells her, eyes still closed but smiling more broadly now at his little joke.

Kate returns to her seat next to the bed, staring at his uncovered hand. She slowly moves her hand toward his again, but changes her mind as she sees him move it back under the covers. She wonders briefly if this was an intentional movement, an intentional pulling away on his part.

"I'm not sure what to say, Kate," he tells her honestly. He knows the feeling inside his greatly damaged heart. He knows exactly how he feels about her. How he has felt for a long time. But something is preventing him from reciprocating those words to her. Maybe he doesn't believe her. Maybe he doesn't believe those three words. Maybe those three words are just too good to be true.

And then one thought, one face suddenly dominates his thoughts, bringing a frown to his face.

" _Shit, she's dating someone else and throws that bomb at me?"_ he thinks to himself, his eyes still closed as he thinks about one Josh whatever-his-name-is.

Yeah, he wants to believe her. He truly does. But she's dating someone else. He has to wonder if those were simply words just blurted out in the moment, but not lasting - not intentional.

Or is he just overthinking things? He's been known to do that. Hell, he's a writer. He _has_ to overthink things. It's his nature. It's his job.

"What about Josh?" he finds himself asking, and as soon as the words leave his lips, his face contorts. He feels something between foolishness and weakness, and he chastises himself internally for the feelings . . . as well as the damn question.

"I don't know, Castle," she answers quickly . . . almost too quickly. "This is new for me, believe me. Maybe I always knew . . . deep down . . . that I loved you. That I wanted you around. That I wanted you pulling my pigtails, annoying me, following me, protecting me in your own way. But I seem to respond to that realization by throwing myself away from you, into someone else's arms."

She's on a roll now, as she stands up and begins pacing the small room. She's not really talking to him anymore. She's talking to herself. She's talking to the universe at large as she continues the confessional eruption. It's overdue, and it's cathartic.

"I guess I knew it when you walked away a couple of summers ago with Gina. My God you have no idea how much that hurt. That pain surprised me. I've been rejected before. Men have broken up with me. But not like that. Not that deeply. I guess I knew then. And then, when we worked that case with Agent Fallon, and found ourselves in that damnable freezer – I knew it then, too. I knew then. And yet, when it was all over and we got out of the freezer –"

"You ended up with motorcycle boy again," he suddenly finishes for her interrupting. She glances over at him, and his eyes are still closed . . . still shut off from her.

"Like I said," she replies, unaffected. "I seem to respond to realizing how I feel about you by throwing myself at someone else. I'm not proud of that, Castle. I'm not making an excuse either. I'm just trying to explain why . . . to explain how . . . hell, I don't know what I'm trying to do, Castle."

"Love is kind of like that," he mutters under his breath. She almost doesn't hear him. It's no admission, mind you, but for now, it's enough. She realizes that he is teetering between sleep . . . okay, unconsciousness actually . . . and this state of awakening. And right now, it appears that sleep is winning out.

No matter. They have time. They have to. She watches him fall back asleep and then heads out the door, searching for Diane Francis.

.

 _ **Still Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 5:23 p.m., At the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct in New York City**_

.

"Thank you for coming in, gentlemen," the short black woman begins, sitting behind the desk that is definitely new to her. She wears a light gray suit, and carries herself in a proud and highly officious manner.

"I know that you were both still off this weekend, and I appreciate you giving me a few minutes."

"Well, when the new boss wants a meeting, he gets a meeting," Esposito replies, instantly realizing that his generic use of the masculine term has struck a nerve.

"It's good to meet you, ma'am," Kevin Ryan counters, trying to defuse the situation. This is no way to start with your new boss, he realizes.

"Call me 'Captain' or call me 'sir'," Captain Victoria Gates barks at both detectives. "I don't care which," she continues before suddenly softening. This isn't how she wants her first meeting with this particular team of detectives to go either.

"Your leader, Detective Beckett, is still out on leave for a few more days," she continues with something between a smile and a frown. It is disconcerting to both men. "I wanted to take this time, however, to meet the rest of her team."

"Including Castle?" Ryan asks, and he realizes his mistake instantly. No, between he and Javier Esposito, this isn't going well at all.

"There is no room in my precinct for a dilettante writer-playing-cop," Gates tells the two men, her eyes darkening menacingly. "I won't have wanna-be-cops getting shot in my precinct . . . or causing one of my real cops to get shot, either. We're going to run things by the book moving forward, you can trust me on that."

Detective Javier Esposito opens his mouth to reply, but both the look from his new captain – along with the quick, sharp kick to the ankle underneath the table stop him. The offending jab from Ryan is not lost on the new head of the 12th Precinct.

"I'd listen to your friend, Detective Esposito," she tells him, then changes gears. "Regardless, I wanted to meet you both, as well as ask you a question."

"Shoot," Kevin Ryan tells her. Not the best choice of words.

"I'm curious to know what two off-duty – and on-leave detectives – were doing a crime scene . . . together," she tells them. Both men exchange a knowing glance.

"Evelyn Montgomery is a friend," Esposito answers first. "She is . . . was Captain Montgomery's wife, and we all were . . . friendly."

"A scenario that won't be repeated again, I can assure you," Gates tells them. Kevin Ryan continues, undeterred, however.

"Be that as it may," he begins, ignoring the raised eyebrow from the new precinct chief, "we wanted to look in on Evelyn. See how she was doing. How the girls were doing."

"Well, perhaps your instincts were accurate, given that you both nearly got yourselves blown to bits, as I understand it," Gates remarks.

"We were lucky ma'am . . . sir," Esposito quickly corrects himself. "We weren't close enough to the blast to get hurt too badly."

"Speak for yourself," Ryan smiles, as the two men share a fist bump. Victoria Gates makes a mental note as she watches the interaction between the two.

"The guys are looking through the rubble to see what they can learn," Esposito continues. "Kevin and I will get more information once they know something, and we will update you as soon as we know anything."

"Make sure you do," Gates tells them, and the next ten minutes are more operational than anything else, as the new captain begins to learn about her lead team of detectives . . . minus one, of course who is noticeably absent.

When they leave her office, both men are silent as they walk to the elevators, as years of non-verbal communications kick in. Once on the elevator, Esposito shakes his head. Ryan nods with understanding. Their new boss is ex-Internal Affairs. Yeah, there is surveillance in the precinct and as far as they know, there could be even more now, given her background.

They are outside the building, walking toward the coffee shop down the block before either man speaks.

"Think she bought it?" Esposito asks.

"I think so," Ryan replies, his hands in his pockets against the sudden brisk wind that flaps about them. "There is no reason for her to suspect that Evelyn wasn't the target. From any view, it looks like an attempt to follow up on the Montgomery family, to keep them silenced. Let's let it stay that way for now."

"But we know differently," Esposito remarks, glancing at his friend.

"Yeah, we do, don't we?" Ryan agrees. "That was no normal blast."

"Nope," Esposito replies, glancing across the street. "I know a motion sensor-triggered blast when I see one . . . especially up close and personal like that. So unless Evelyn has suddenly become suicidal – and I don't believe that for one minute – that means that Evelyn and the girls weren't the targets at all."

"The target was whoever decided to come snooping at her house," Kevin Ryan remarks as both men duck into the coffee shop, the bell atop the door jingling to sound their entrance.

"Which means that Evelyn –" Esposito begins.

"Or someone working for Evelyn," Ryan interjects.

"Or someone working for Evelyn," Esposito corrects himself, "set the charges, in case someone came around while she was gone."

"Pretty draconian for someone who is just going away for a while and doesn't want intruders,' Kevin Ryan remarks as the two men settle in at a table near the rear.

"Which means that things aren't what they seem with Evelyn. Or Roy, for that matter" Esposito offers with a sad face.

"Are they ever?" Kevin asks, a similar expression painted on his face as well.

"What do we know?" Javier begins as he beckons a waitress over toward the table with a smile.

"Well, we know that Roy was involved with all of that stuff with Kate's mom," Kevin replies, the disappointment evident on his face.

"And if Roy was involved, knowing the relationship he had with Evelyn . . ." Esposito's thoughts don't need to be completed. Both men have been wondering about this since picking themselves up from the ground at the blast site at the Montgomery home.

"If he was involved – then either Evelyn was involved, too, or she at least was aware. I'd hope that the Captain would have kept her out of it," Ryan continues.

"But a motion-sensor triggered blast screams otherwise, don't you think?" Esposito argues.

"I'm with you, man," Ryan agrees sadly. "It makes you wonder . . . question . . . who else could have been involved. I mean, if a good man like Roy Montgomery was involved . . ."

"And if his wife was either involved or aware . . . either way . . ." Esposito continues.

"It makes you wonder what other cops were involved," Ryan tells him.

"Not just cops, bro," Esposito warns. "Cops have been dying over the years because of this. That much is clear now. But someone finally came after Captain Montgomery. Now, yeah, that could have been a cop, yeah."

"But it could have been someone else, too," Ryan agrees.

"Someone from way back when all of this went down," Esposito continues, warming to the conversation now. "Someone outside the NYPD. Someone killing cops. Someone not afraid to kill a cop. Someone more powerful than a cop."

"The mob?" Ryan questions.

"Not their style," Esposito counters. "They'd take credit for it in their own way. They'd use it to send a message. There would have been no evidence, but there would have been rumblings in the street. For the right ears to hear."

"But all of this has been radio silence, Ryan agrees, nodding his head. "For years, there's been nothing."

"Which means we have homework to do, Junior" Esposito tells his friend as the perky waitress saunters up to their table, pen and notepad in hand to take their order.

" _Yeah, homework indeed,"_ Kevin Ryan thinks, as he now considers just who would have no fear launching a silent war against the NYPD.

.

 **A/N:** Again, my apologies for how long it took to get this chapter written and posted. I hope that all of you who celebrate Thanksgiving have a wonderful week this week. I know I have so much to be thankful for.


	17. Chapter 17

**Glint – Chapter 17**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** I have no excuse for the delay. I really don't. I am sorry - my apologies to all.

Here we go.

.

 _ **Monday Morning – May 30, 2011, 6:22 a.m., At a small diner in New York City**_

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Detective Javier Esposito covers his mouth as a lip-splitting yawn overtakes him. He glances at the front door of the small eatery, where the small bell atop the door has jingled, indicating another patron is entering. This patron is the man he has been waiting for.

He yawns widely again – it was a long night filled with little sleep – as both he and the detective now approaching his table had gone their separate ways to do a little more digging. They are acting with a sense of urgency now; almost getting blown to kingdom come tends to do that.

"I hope you have something good that got me out of bed this early in the morning on a day off," Esposito grumbles as he glances at his watch. The new warden of the precinct, Captain Victoria Gates, gave them another day off, due to their experience back at the old Montgomery home. After a long night, Javier was hoping for a little bit of shut-eye, which was quickly denied by his partner's text less than an hour ago.

"Trust me, I do," Detective Kevin Ryan replies as he pulls a chair out to join his friend at the table.

"And we couldn't have done this over the phone, from the lovely safety of my bed?" Esposito smirks.

"No, not this, Javi," Ryan tells him, offering a glance over his shoulder. There is something about his friend, something about how he carrying himself that suddenly worries Esposito. Kevin Ryan seems tense. Almost afraid.

"Well, spill it," Esposito whispers, then shakes his head quickly as the waitress walks up to the table, writing pad in hand.

"What'll be this morning for two of New York's finest?" Brenda asks. Her dark red hair is pulled up in a bun this morning, and her square spectacle glasses are hanging on the bridge of her nose. The middle-aged woman is no stranger to the police officers who frequent this establishment regularly.

"Hi Bren," Kevin greets her. "Coffee for me."

"Me, too," Esposito adds with a smile.

"Two heavily-caffeinated coffees on the way," she smiles sweetly as she walks away, already knowing their beverage order, but asking – as always – anyway.

"Okay, so what'cha got?" Esposito asks.

"It's a good thing you're sitting for this," Ryan whispers back, drawing his head closer to his partner's. "When we left last night, I don't think we were prepared for this . . . I know I wasn't."

"Quit stalling, dammit," his friend barks, still as a whisper. "What's got you so spooked?"

"Well, we agreed," Ryan begins, wiping his forehead and glancing around nervously, "that you would take a look into Evelyn's background, while I looked more into Roy's past."

"Yeah, and I can't say that I found all that much on her," Esposito admits. "Seems she kind of came out of nowhere into the Captain's life. They weren't old high school sweethearts, didn't meet in college. Met while he was on the force, early on."

"Hold that thought, because it might be more important than you realize," Ryan tells him. "Especially after you hear what I found."

Ryan takes out a note pad – about half the size of your standard 8 ½ by 11, and clicks his pen open as he starts writing.

"Okay, we know that the Captain was involved – heavily – with all of those shenanigans back in the day," Ryan begins. "Organized crime owned the justice system here. So cops – not trusting said justice system – took matters into their own hands."

"Kidnapping mobsters," Esposito agrees, nodding his head, still keeping his voice low. "We know all of this already."

"True," Kevin acknowledges as he holds up a forefinger to emphasize his point. "But we only know the plot of the story. We haven't read the chapter by chapter breakdown."

"Hell, you're starting to sound like Castle, now," Esposito mutters under his breath.

"Whatever," Ryan remarks, deflecting the comment as he starts writing down names.

 _Raglan._

 _McCallister._

 _Montgomery._

Ryan doesn't speak as he writes the names. Esposito stares down at the notepad, acknowledging the three cops written there.

"These guys kidnapped mobsters for ransom," Ryan tells him. "But someone found out. And this someone started to blackmail the blackmailers."

"And Cap took that guy – or woman – their identity, to his grave with him," Javier remarks sullenly. "Really have to wonder why he didn't tell us."

"Beckett told me she asked him about that . . . point blank," Ryan answers. "She asked him who was behind all of this."

"And?"

"And she said that Roy told her that he might as well shoot her himself if he gave her that information," Ryan continues, recalling the conversation with Beckett after Montgomery's shooting but before the funeral.

"He knows Beckett well," Esposito remarks sadly. "Which means Roy knew."

"Which means Roy knew," Ryan agrees. "More than that, he gave Beckett the clue she needed. She just didn't see it. Still doesn't. She's too close. A moth buzzing around at the light."

"What are you talking about?"

"Remember what Beckett told us. Yeah, Roy said he'd have to shoot her if he gave her the information. But remember, she also said that whoever this guy is, he used the money from the ransoms to become what he is today. That's what she said Roy told her."

"So it's a guy," Esposito agrees nonchalantly. "That narrows it down to –"

"It's a _powerful_ guy, Javi," Kevin Ryan interrupts. "Her words. _'To become what he is today.'_ "

Esposito stares at his friend, his mind clicking as pieces start falling into place."

"So, knowing that . . . I did a little digging," Ryan continues. "It's amazing, Javi, what you can learn with just one puzzle piece that was missing. After all of those years of Beckett knowing nothing . . . just having one piece changes everything."

"And what piece was that?" his friend queries.

"Roy," Kevin replies. "Roy is the piece. Cap was involved. These were police officers kidnapping mafia guys. Roy was one of them. But someone found out. And instead of stopping them, or instead of turning them in – think about this Javi, this person decides to insert himself into the scheme – and blackmails the three cops."

"We know this already," Esposito counters, but Ryan interrupts.

"Remember when we really started looking into this a couple of weeks ago," Ryan tells him, "I told you I didn't think it was a cop behind this."

"Yeah, you said a cop wouldn't have this kind of juice," Esposito remembers out loud.

"And you said whoever was behind it was probably long gone from the scene . . . probably – and I quote you – 'in private security or in politics, business' – "

"Yeah, I remember," his friend replies. "Where are you going with this, Kev?"

"Beckett's words," Ryan tells him, now writing the words down for emphasis.

 _Used ransom money to become what he is today._

"Someone who comes into money – illegally – isn't going to use that money to start his own private security firm," Ryan tells him.

"Probably not," Esposito agrees. "Way too small."

"So that leaves business, or politics," Ryan tells him.

"Or another mobster," Esposito adds.

"True, that's possible," Ryan nods. "But a cop . . . what does a cop fear more? Dying at the hands of a mobster? Or going to jail?"

"Hell, no way I'm going to jail," Esposito half laughs. "Wouldn't last a night in there. And they'd make it hurt. Bad."

"Exactly," Ryan agrees. "So . . . not a mobster. That leaves business or politics."

"My bet is politics," Javier replies after thinking for a few seconds. "Someone who is willing to blackmail cops isn't going to go into business. That's not going to be enough power for them."

"My thought exactly," Ryan tells him. "Which is where I started digging late last night. I started looking at people who were in politics back then. Or on the cusp of a political career. Looking for someone in public office. Someone who would have been voted in, or appointed. Someone who a cop might be wary of. Someone who could intimidate a cop."

"Well, I don't think many cops are intimidated by the mayor," Esposito thinks out loud. "Kidnappings, ransoms, murder . . . that's too James Cagney for me."

"Agree," Ryan continues. "Not a mayor. But think about who was corrupt back then. _What_ was corrupt? Why did those cops feel like they had to kidnap a criminal in the first place? What wasn't working the right –"

"Justice," Esposito breathes out, his voice rising just a bit too loud in volume. He catches himself and physically shrinks down into the table a bit.

"Yeah, Justice," Ryan tells him. "So we look at the DA's office back then. We look at the players."

He leaves the sentence hanging. His partner finally bites.

"Okay, who did you find?"

Ryan doesn't speak. He simply writes down a name on the paper. At first, Esposito doesn't recognize the name. It's too big. Too bold. Too brazen.

Too frightening.

Then it clicks.

"No way," Detective Esposito hisses between clenched teeth. He glances up at his partner, who doesn't say a word. No words are necessary.

"Are you sure?" Javier asks, and Ryan sees the fear in his friend's eyes. Fear that mirrors his own.

"He was the Assistant DA back then, Javi," Ryan explains. "Ex-military, too. And now he is a major league player on the big stage – and what is his reputation – what is he known for more than anything else?"

Esposito thinks for a few seconds, replaying campaign slogans and messages from the past few years.

"No special interest money," he finally says. "Doesn't raise a lot of money through dinners and events, but never is short of funds for a campaign."

"So where did the money come from?" Ryan asks. "He doesn't come from money."

"That's the million dollar question?" Javier whistles, staring at the name. "This guy didn't come from money, didn't have that kind of money to run a campaign on that kind of salary, and never spent a lot of time fundraising seriously."

"So where did the money come from?" Ryan asks again, as he unconsciously begins to draw a circle around the name on the paper.

 _Senator William Bracken._

.

 _ **Monday Morning – May 30, 2011, 7:55 a.m., At Jim Beckett's Cabin in upstate New York**_

.

The morning sun is shining brightly through the window, bathing the room in a yellowish tint. Kate Beckett's mind is racing, with multiple disparate memories flooding and competing for attention. She thinks about her times here as a young girl. She thinks about Roy Montgomery lying dead in the hangar. She thinks about Richard Castle bleeding out on the grass in the cemetery.

But the memory that is winning out right now is her conversation with Richard Castle from yesterday, early evening. After she and Nurse Francis had dragged the unconscious author back into the cabin, and into this room, where she sits, at his bed-side once again.

He awoke late last night – it was around 10 p.m., and he was in pain. A lot of pain. She chose not to continue their conversation then, opting instead to help Diane Francis feed him a little bit of food while pumping him with painkillers, hoping he could hold the food down. He had finally drifted back to sleep, the awkwardness of their previous conversation hanging like a raincloud over both of them.

No – they have never done 'conversations' right.

But now, this morning, as she sits next to his bed staring at him, staring at that lock of hair that has dropped lazily across his forehead . . . her mind goes back to a different conversation with the novelist. One from a couple of weeks ago. Just a day or two before Montgomery was murdered in the shootout at the hangar. Castle had come to her home. He had come to visit her, and asked her to back off. Asked her to drop her mother's case. He had told her that they – whoever _they_ were – were coming for her. That they were going to kill her.

And then he dropped their fragile dance and got serious.

He told her if she didn't care about herself, then to think about the people who loved her.

Loved.

He had actually used the word. She remembers how her heart began racing. How she was nervous and excited and dreading what was to come – all at once. Because they never talked. Not about the important stuff. So him dropping that word . . . it meant nothing . . . but it meant everything.

And then – he chickened out. He quickly amended his statement, specifically mentioning her father. Specifically mentioning Josh.

And specifically not mentioning anyone else.

Like himself

She had exploded. The conversation is as fresh this morning as it was less than two weeks ago. She remembers her frustration at him bringing up Josh . . . and not including himself. She closes her eyes, replaying the conversation almost word for word in her mind.

" _And what about you, Rick?" she had asked . . . angrily . . . hopefully. And he – frustratingly – had punted._

" _Of course I don't want anything to happen to you. I'm your partner. I'm your friend-"_

" _Is_ _ **that**_ _what we are?" she had said. It wasn't really a question, or a statement of fact. More like a statement of frustration._

 _He had paused then – they were so close to having the conversation – the one that alluded them – the one they effortlessly avoided._

" _All right, you know what," he began. "I don't know . . ._ _ **what**_ _. . . we are. We kissed . . . and then we_ _ **never**_ _talk about it. We nearly die, frozen to death in each other's arms, but we_ _ **never**_ _talk about it. So no, I got_ _ **no clue**_ _what we are. I know that I don't want to see you throw your life away-"_

" _Well last time I checked, it was_ _ **my**_ _life," she threw back at him. And then she twisted the dagger slowly. "Not your personal jungle gym. And for the past three years, I've been running around with the school's funniest kid . . . and it's not enough!"_

 _Yeah, ouch. Her words had wounded him. It was a mortal stabbing. But in his pain, it had brought out his fighting spirit. His next words more than reciprocated her wound on him. They cut deep. And far too close for comfort._

" _I know you crawled inside your mother's murder . . . and didn't come out," he had told her. I know you hide there, the same way you hide in those nowhere relationships . . . with men you don't love!"_

 _Yeah, that one had hurt. But he wasn't finished._

" _You could be happy Kate. You deserve to be happy. But you're afraid."_

And with that, she had thrown him out. Told him they were over. She winces now recalling her words, and the venom that came with them. She has replayed that conversation in her head, over and over since then. Wishing she could go back and do it all over again. Wishing that the damn light bulb of love that burned brightly at the swing set just yesterday would have gone on at that moment. Wishing she would have jumped at his reluctance to throw himself out there, and done it for him.

He begins to stir as the ringing on her cell phone startles both of them. Her phone is ringing – so she knows that the clone Jackson Hunt has is ringing also. She jumps up quickly, moving toward the door and quickly out of the bedroom. She glances over at the table where Diane Francis sits, now staring at her questioningly.

"This is Beckett," Kate finally answers on the fourth ring. Her mind is listening to the caller as well as replaying her conversation with Hunt.

" _Keep him on the phone long enough so that he can get a trace on you. He's going to call because you are gone – because no one knows where you are. He's going to be looking for you. And we want him to find you."_

"Detective Beckett," the mysterious Mr. Smith replies. "You are a hard woman to find."

"Not really," she banters. "You just have to know where to look."

"Indeed," Smith counters. "So I have to tell you, given our last conversation – I am surprised that you have disappeared like this."

"Why would you care about my whereabouts?" Kate asks. She really doesn't care about his answer. She's simply keeping him on the line.

" _When he has your location, he will end the call himself,"_ Hunt had told her. _"You just stay on the line, answer whatever questions he comes up with, until he disconnects."_

"Mr. Castle disappears," Smith replies. "It's all over the news. He is gone. His daughter is gone. You are gone. It makes certain people . . . nervous, Detective. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Well, getting him out of there seemed a good idea," Kate offers, almost smiling at the ridiculousness of this conversation. She glances at her watch, knowing it is getting close. He is talking now, and she is only half-listening. She knows he isn't going to give anything important away. But she is listening for background noise. Anything to give her a piece of information that he wouldn't want her to know. Suddenly, she realizes he is finished.

He's got her location.

"You will be hearing from me again, Detective," he tells her as he disconnects. Immediately she hits END on her device, and then starts mentally counting in her head. Ten seconds pass before her phone rings again.

"Well, you were right," she tells Jackson Hunt.

"And you should expect visitors," he tells her. "Probably this evening. I will send your two detective partners to your location. And I will try to get out there myself. I just have a matter to attend to here in New Rochelle."

"You've found Alexis?" Kate asks, holding the excitement in her voice down so as not to awaken the sleeping author in the room in the back

"In a matter of speaking," he tells her, glancing out into the Long Island Sound from the shoreline. "I will have her within the hour, I promise you. But you focus on things at your end. You're going to have visitors – and if I'm right – you can expect five, six, maybe up to eight. And they will be mean hombres, trust me."

"I'm feeling a little outgunned here," Kate admits, glancing around. "You said you are calling Javier and Kevin –"

"As soon as we hang up," Hunt tells her. "And again – Cooper and I will be there as soon as possible. In the meantime, I know Diane has made some . . . arrangements for you."

"She seems to be a jack-of-all-trades," Kate comments.

"Quite," Hunt tells her, and the single word causes the new round of explosions in her stomach. "I have to go now, Kate," he concludes, his voice softening. "Time to get my granddaughter."

She hears the line go dead, and then clicks off herself. She turns and Diane Francis is standing next to her. She didn't even hear her move.

"Geez, you scared the life out of me," Kate mutters.

"What did he say?" Francis asks, ignoring Kate's startled greeting.

"He said we should expect company," Kate tells her. "Today. Tonight."

"Then we have work to do," Francis replies, now walking back toward the bedroom housing Richard Castle. "And it begins with him."

.

 _ **Monday Morning – May 30, 2011, 8:12 a.m., Somewhere in Westport, Connecticut.**_

.

He stares at his phone for a moment, then back to the computer screen, at the blinking red light which hovers over the upstate New York location like a Christmas star.

"Gotcha," he remarks as he dials the number from memory. It only rings once.

"Have you found her?" the Senator asks.

"I have," Smith replies affably. "Just a couple of hours upstate from the city, actually."

"Good," he tells him. "Very good. I'm dispatching Maddox. He will take a crew out there and take care of the situation."

"I'm still a little confused," Smith counters. "I mean, why take her out now? Her partner has been shot, his daughter has been shot . . . I think she's gotten the message."

"Perhaps . . . and perhaps not," Bracken replies. "Someone has been snooping on Evelyn. And not just any 'someone'. Detectives from the 12th."

"You can't be serious," Smith argues, but is cut off immediately.

"I am deadly serious," the politician tells him. "Surveillance video picked them up before Evelyn's house went boom. Now I am sure I don't have to say, but if the NYPD is hopping the fence in the backyard of Montgomery's house, then that means they are intentionally – or accidentally – getting too close for comfort."

"I know but –"

"No buts," Bracken interrupts, his voice slightly raising. "Better to cut off the branches before they grow too thick. I have waited long enough. I never should have made that deal with Montgomery in the first place."

"But Roy had information –"

"Roy is dead," Bracken interrupts again. "And I should have done that a long time ago. I am not making that mistake again."

No, the Senator has no qualms taking out a few more cops . . . as history has shown. Seconds later, Mr. Smith finds himself listening to dead air. He stares at the phone and cannot help but shudder.

"Maddox," he breathes, as if the very name is poison. No, the Senator is not taking any chances now, not if he is sending in Maddox and his crew.

"I almost feel sorry for her," he mumbles as he stands and walks toward his kitchen, cup in hand, looking for a refill.

.

 **A/N:** Okay, so I am not going to make any promises about when the next chapter is coming out, as I don't have a good track history for the last month or so. Suffice to say, I do have it outlined, and just have to get it posted around Christmas and birthday shopping. Anyway, I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season. Thanks for staying with me on this one, through all of the delays.


	18. Chapter 18

**Glint – Chapter 18**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** Merry Christmas. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season.

.

 _ **Monday Morning – May 30, 2011, 9:01 a.m., In Long Island Sound just off New Rochelle, New York**_

.

"Two boats. Just like he said," Major Terrance Cooper comments, pointing out at the two watercraft ahead of them. The two boats are separated by about a two hundred yards of water. Close enough for one to keep tabs on the other, if equipped properly.

"He had no ability to lie, if I remember correctly," Jackson Hunt replies, cryptically. "The question is . . ."

"Which one is she on?" Cooper asks, completing the question.

The morning is still early, and there is much to be done. Both men feel the sense of urgency, for multiple reasons.

"This fellow – Clint – will be on the other one," Hunt muses aloud.

"And if he is anything like his partner, he's going to be armed and professional," Cooper adds.

"Affirmative," Hunt agrees as the chopper makes a first pass overhead. The two men sit one behind the other in the Bell AH-1Z SeaCobra helicopter – Cooper in the pilot chair while Hunt has taken the co-pilot and gunner's chair.

"We need to hurry," Hunt reminds his friend. "The Coast Guard is likely only five minutes out."

"I told you we called them too soon," Cooper mutters in semi-mock frustration.

"Oh, you know you like cutting things close, T," Hunt smiles. Hunt had given the Coast Guard a tip on the kidnapped girl, telling them to look for her on a small craft in the Sound off New Rochelle. Of course, they have to take care of the 'other' craft in the area before the cavalry arrives.

"Ready?" Cooper asks, ignoring the banter as he banks the chopper slightly to the right before slamming hard to the left in a long, smooth U-turn maneuver that quickly brings them back to approach the two watercraft once more. This time, however, the major has dropped their altitude to about fifty feet. At this height, buzzing the two craft will certainly bring up to the deck whoever is on each craft.

"Keep an eye out," Cooper tells him as he slows their speed down to just over the equivalent of fifty miles per hour. The entire purpose of the low-level buzz is to find out which boat Alexis Castle is on.

First glance would tell them that she is on the boat farthest from the shore, with the second boat between her and the shore, preventing any type of escape. As they pass overhead, suddenly Cooper banks hard right, accelerating and climbing, startling his companion.

"Sniper," is all he says, thumbing behind them. "She's on the first boat, closest to shore."

"Let me confirm," Hunt tells his friend, as he takes out high-powered binoculars and looks down as Cooper banks again.

"Damn, I would have put money on that second boat," Cooper remarks as he lowers his altitude once again.

"You and I both," Hunt tells him with a smile and a chuckle.

"You got her?" Cooper asks, hearing the chuckle from Hunt behind him that can only mean one thing.

"Long red hair," Hunt answers. "That's all I needed to see."

Hunt waits until Cooper has them lined up for their next run, having dropped them back down to one hundred feet off the water's surface. He accelerates to one hundred miles per hour toward the boats when Hunt launches the first AIM Sidewinder missile toward the furthermost craft. It is a direct hit, as the small boat explodes in a mushrooming inferno. The chopper banks upward as it passes overhead.

"Got a body in the water," Cooper tells his companion. He had caught sight of a person diving off the boat just before the explosion.

"Professional," Hunt thinks aloud, fully respecting their adversary's likely military training. No doubt he recognized the Marine chopper and its capabilities and opted for the ocean once he saw it banking back.

No matter.

Cooper passes the burning craft and banks hard again, to the left, and again to the left, now making a strafing run on the water as he approaches from the north. The 20mm shells from the M197 three-barreled gatling cannon swallow the surface as Cooper passes over, flying an easy 140 mph.

He sees the body riddled with bullets as he passes overhead. They won't get anything from this guy now, although he knows Hunt probably wasn't going to be in a very talkative mood to begin with.

"All too easy when you know where to look," Hunt marvels, his voice barely audible.

"Just in time, too, Stone," Cooper tells him as both men gaze northward. In the water, approaching rapidly is a RB-S defender-class boat for the United States Coast Guard, coming from the Connecticut base. Easily noticeable due to the orange, foam-filled flotation collar, the rescue boat was originally put into action in 2002 after the events of 9/11.

"Stay here for a moment, would you, T?" Hunt asks, and Cooper knows that his old friend simply wants to make sure the pick-up is secured. Cooper hovers the chopper some sixty feet above the water, and Hunt can see Alexis waving at the aircraft.

"Smart girl," Cooper remarks with admiration.

"Yeah, recognizes the military bearings and realizes we're the good guys," Hunt agrees, smiling to himself.

Seconds later, the twenty-five foot Coast Guard ship pulls alongside the small craft housing Alexis Castle. Jackson Hunt nods his head in satisfaction as he sees a member of the two-person crew pull himself aboard the boat, wrapping Richard Castle's daughter in an orange blanket. He turns and looks upward toward the chopper and offers a salute.

"They've got her," Hunt tells his friend. "They will know what to do with her. For now, we've got other fish to fry."

"That we do," the major agrees as he banks the chopper hard to the left until they are facing the mainland again – this time headed northwest along the coast toward Connecticut.

.

 _ **Monday Morning – May 30, 2011, 9:35 a.m., At Jim Beckett's cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

"Beckett," Kate Beckett answers her phone crisply, seeing the number of Jackson Hunt on the other end.

"It's done," he tells her.

"Thank God. Is she okay?" she asks, the relief easily discernible in her voice.

"I have to assume she is," Hunt tells her. "The Coast Guard has her now, and they have instructions not to make her rescue public . . . so you won't hear about it anywhere just yet. But trust me, Alexis is safe and sound now."

"Why the shroud of secrecy?" Kate asks, and can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of asking such a question of someone from the CIA. Hunt joins in on the little joke before continuing.

"The longer whoever is behind all of this thinks Alexis is still captive, the less likely they are to alter their current thinking."

"Which is to come after me," she remarks.

"Which is to come after you, yes," he agrees.

"You say that in such a nonchalant manner," she tells him, and he can't tell if it is mock sadness or genuine. Not that it matters. The plan is the plan.

"I know you can take care of yourself, Detective," he replies. "If I did not think so, you would not be guarding my son."

She opens her mouth to counter his thought, but he continues before she can speak.

"Anyway, these are military types we are up against, so I am sure they have a scheduled check in with someone higher up. And when they don't check in . . ."

He leaves the statement unfinished.

"Did you get anything out of them?" Kate asks.

"We didn't do very much talking," he deadpans truthfully, then changes gears. "Besides, you have your fellow detectives on the way to help out as we speak."

"Javier and Kevin? They are on the way?" she asks, clearly relieved.

"That is affirmative," he replies officiously. "I called them after I spoke with you earlier, as I said I would - to get them moving in your direction. They should be there within a couple of hours."

He isn't going to share with her what the detectives have told him. Not yet. It's not that he doubts their detecting competencies, but they've just fingered a powerful United States Senator from the State of New York as the mastermind behind all of Kate Beckett's misery . . . among other things. And before he shares that bit of news with her, he's going to verify it through his own channels. He's asked the two detectives to follow suit, keeping that information to themselves while he checks his own sources. Neither seemed happy about that development. However, all of them are well aware of her tendencies to run off half-cocked with just the slightest bit of a lead when it comes to her mother's case. And so far, this little crusade of hers has gotten their captain killed and both his son and his granddaughter shot, kidnapped and in hiding. Reminding both men that they have loved ones was all it took to at least get their agreement on the phone.

So yeah, he's keeping this information to himself for now. For now, he wants to get past the coming attack. After that? Well, high on the list is to find out how much of this is – and has been – known to Langley. Because this is the first he himself has heard of such a nefarious plot around the Senator. But someone at Langley has to know.

Someone at Langley always knows.

"But . . . but what about Castle . . . Rick," Kate asks. "He's in no condition to survive any type of firefight. And if you are correct and these are military guys, then-"

"A medical Evac team is on the way to you now, Detective," he comments, glancing down at his watch. "They should be there within the next ten, fifteen minutes tops. Diane will recognize them. They will get Richard out of there."

With that, he disconnects the call, leaving Kate Beckett staring blankly at her phone.

" _I don't like this,"_ she thinks to herself, feeling like a sitting duck. _"I don't like this one bit."_

She turns back toward the hallway. She had taken the call in the bedroom but stepped out quickly as soon as she saw who was calling. Walking briskly, she enters back into Richard Castle's room. Agent/Nurse Diane Francis already is finishing mobilization preparations, getting him ready for transport. So evidently, Hunt had placed a call to the agent before calling Kate.

"No, I don't like this one bit," she mutters to herself.

"What was that, Detective?" Diane Francis asks, turning back to face the detective.

"Looks like you are getting him ready to leave," Kate deadpans.

"That's correct," the blonde woman tells Kate. "Stone called me –"

"Stone?" Kate asks, confusion showing on her face.

"Oh, it's his codename," Francis tells her. "Within the agency, he is known as the Stone."

"Sounds ominous," Kate remarks.

"And well-deserved," Francis replies, not giving anything else to the detective.

"What can I do to help?" Kate asks. Despite her misgivings, she has to admit – getting Castle out of here before the shooting starts is the only possible option for his survival.

"Just help me with those cables over there," Francis tells her, pointing toward the far wall. "We're going to need to take those cable leads and plug them into this smaller more portable monitoring device."

In the distance both women can make out the sound of an approaching chopper.

"Sooner than I expected," Francis remarks, glancing at her watch.

"That a problem?" Kate asks, suddenly on guard and slightly unnerved.

"Let's hope not," Francis answers as she walks away from the room and out into the living area.

"Keep prepping Castle for transport, Detective," she calls back from the living area. A second later she is out the front door, gun drawn as she waits for the approaching aircraft to clear the line of trees.

Kate continues reattaching cable leads into the new, portable monitor. She places the monitor on the bed, just to the side of the sleeping form of Richard Castle. She notices he is not even beginning to stir.

"She must have given you another cocktail," she remarks out loud. She turns the portable unit on, satisfied when the monitor results mirror what she was seeing from the larger unit just seconds ago. She pulls the covers up higher over his chest, releases the brake on the mobile bed and begins to slowly maneuver the bed, wheeling it towards the door. The bed is a smaller model than the normal hospital bed, but she can already tell it is going to take a few twists and turns to get it out into the hallway.

She has the bed halfway out of the doorway when the front door reopens, and Diane Francis jogs back in, followed by two tall men dressed in tan slacks and tan shirts.

"Detective," Francis begins, "this is Agent Walters and Agent Ramirez. Both good men, both known personally to me. Let's get Mr. Castle out of here."

For the next minute or so, the two men work quickly and efficiently to transport Castle out of the bedroom. They quickly begin wheeling him to the front door of the cabin.

"Where are they taking him?" Kate asks.

"I cannot say, just yet, Detective," Francis answers, and can see the displeasure on Kate's face. "It is protocol, Detective. If you survive the coming fight, then you will call me, at this number," she continues, giving Beckett a business card. It is black and blank except for a single phone number written in white ink. "Then I will tell you where to come."

"Wait a second," Kate counters. "What do you mean if _I_ survive? What about you? I thought you were staying here with me. Hunt said –"

"Stone says many things, Detective," Francis cuts her off, drawing a chuckle from the two orderlies who are now wheeling Castle outside to the waiting medical chopper that sits some fifty feet away in the grass. Kate and Francis walk with them as they continue their conversation.

"No matter. Your partners are on their way," Francis continues. "They will be here before the fireworks begin. If you are not successful, then we cannot have anyone who can talk to have any information on our new location."

"How can you be so sure Javier and Kevin will be here in time?" Kate questions, now beginning to lose patience with this entire affair. She's placing her life into the hands of people she has just met, and they seem to play free and loose with things like truth and trust and transparency.

"Because while your mysterious Mr. Smith was tracing _your_ location during your phone call, Stone was tracing _his_ location. We know where he is, and have an idea where your attackers will be coming from."

"That's where Hunt is headed," Kate nods, now finally understanding why Hunt isn't rushing to her aid. It falls into place quickly. His number one goal is to get his son to safety. His number two goal is to get Smith. If there is time, then he gets around to helping Kate.

Frowning, Kate watches the men as they prepare to lift the portable bed into the craft. She bends quickly, placing a kiss to the unconscious man's forehead, closing her eyes as she whispers a silent prayer to the heavens, hoping that this isn't going to be how everything ends . . . before it even truly begins.

Diane Francis hops into the interior of the craft, and seconds later, the door slides closed and the chopper lifts off. The Agent/Nurse simply nods her head at the detective through the window as the helicopter rises and then banks back over the trees and out of sight.

The morning silence, broken only by the sounds of birds chirping in the trees, is hardly solace to the detective. She fights a shiver as she pulls her arms around herself.

She has never felt so alone.

.

 **A/N:** A horrible place to stop for now, I admit. But we don't want to get into gratuitous violence over Christmas weekend do we? No . . . I didn't think so. My warmest Christmas wishes to you all. Be safe, and we will be back at this next week for the siege in Upstate New York.


	19. Chapter 19

**Glint – Chapter 19**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** Merry Christmas. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season.

.

 _ **Monday Afternoon – May 30, 2011, 12:27 p.m., At Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

The knock on the door launches a barrage of emotions within Detective Kate Beckett. Fear, relief, dread, anticipation – you name it. It just depends on who is on the other side of the door. The only hope she has at this moment is that her perpetrators – those people who are coming to kill her – are not going to just waltz up to the door and knock.

She makes her way silently but quickly to the window to the side – wishing now that her father had installed a peephole in the door. But who in their right mind puts a peephole in the front door of a remote family cabin in the woods? This was certainly the last thing Jim Beckett considered as he drew up the plans for the family-getaway.

The blinds are angled just enough for her to make out Detective Kevin Ryan, standing about four feet away from the door. She sighs in relief and quickly rushes back to the door, flinging it open.

"Hey Beck-"

The rest of Detective Javier Esposito's greeting is caught in his throat as Kate Beckett quickly steps forward into a tight, extended hug, her arms around his chest. Kevin Ryan's wide-eyed expression offers the same surprise felt by his partner.

"Uh, you okay there, Kate?" Ryan asks, as Esposito continues to search for his voice, but finally returns the embrace all the same, wrapping his arms around the slender woman.

"I'm just glad to see you guys," she tells them, her voice rich with emotion. "I was wondering if you really were coming."

"We headed this way as soon as we got the call," Esposito tells her as she pulls back for a moment to gaze at both of her friends. Her partners.

"Yeah, got here as soon as we could," Ryan tells her, now stepping forward. Suddenly, he too is given the teddy-bear treatment by the woman who both men would usually describe as professional, withdrawn and certainly not one for huge physical displays like this.

"Yeah, well, a lot has happened, and I'm still trying to figure out who to trust," she tells both men, while keeping the embrace with Ryan.

"We ran into a wee bit of traffic, otherwise we would have been here about twenty minutes ago," Ryan replies. "We got the call from Hunt, and dropped everything."

"So when you say 'dropped everything' . . . what were you doing?" she asks. "Have you learned anything new?"

Both men give her their best stoic face, feigning slight disappointment, but saying nothing.

As they have previously agreed.

Their options were two-fold. Tell Kate about Bracken. Or don't tell her about Bracken. The decision was not an easy one, as the two had each taken one side, and argued back and forth for almost an hour – during their trip here - about keeping information from Beckett.

" _She deserves to know, man," Ryan had said, taking the position that they should come clean with her. "You want to keep this from her? Think about how hurt she was to know that Captain Montgomery was involved all this time . . . and that he kept it from her all these years."_

" _We aren't talking about keeping it from her for years," Esposito had argued. "Hunt said one day. One night. Get through tonight. Then we tell her."_

" _No. When he said 'we', he was using the collective 'we'. He was including himself. He wants to be there when we tell her. Why is it we are trusting this guy so much? For all we know, he could be part of all of this, as well."_

" _I don't believe that," Esposito had countered._

" _Why not?"_

" _Because Beckett doesn't believe that. And if she – for whatever reason – if has decided to trust a stranger, then so can we. Anyway, he's had more than enough chances right now to take her out – take Castle out."_

" _Javi, we can't –"_

" _Kevin, you know how she will react. She will lose focus on what is most important right now, and right now, priority numero uno is keeping our butts alive. And hers. He asked for twenty-four hours. We give him his twenty-four hours."_

" _And what about Castle?"_

" _What about Castle?" Javier had replied. "He's safe somewhere right now. Right now, I care about Beckett. Keeping her safe."_

 _The long, winding drive had suddenly opened up to a small, cozy looking cabin some one hundred yards ahead, surrounding by a line of trees that suddenly breaks some fifty yards from the small home._

" _No more time to argue, Bro," Esposito had said, bringing the conversation to a close. "We aren't going to risk our lives by telling her now. We get through tonight. Then we worry about that."_

" _She's gonna be pissed, Javi," Kevin had told him._

" _She's gonna be alive, Kev," Javier had replied. "I'd rather have a pissed off Beckett than a dead one. Let's stay focused . . . and make sure she does, too."_

It's a surreal moment as the brief staring match between the three detectives ends with Javier replying for both men.

"Nothing important, unless you consider Kevin and I nearly getting blown to hell at Evelyn Montgomery's house important," Javier smiles, trying to offer a bit of levity to a situation clearly lacking of any humor.

"Evelyn . . . Roy?" Kate asks, her eyes questioning. "What happened?"

"Javi and I were snooping around Roy's old house, looking for Evelyn, just to ask a few questions," Kevin replies.

"She wasn't there," Javier continues the story. "Seems she left. Took off. But there were questions Kevin and I had . . . so . . ."

"So?" Kate queries.

"So Javier and I hopped the fence in the backyard and –"

"You _what_?"

"Hey, consider an exploding bomb detonated by a motion sensor suitable chastisement for the both of us, okay?" Javier remarks, frowning now.

"You . . . wait . . . motion sensor? Why would Evelyn have motion sensors set in the backyard?" she asks.

"Wrong question. I can see why she and Roy would have motion sensors . . . given what we now know about Roy," Kevin replies. "But motion sensors tied to detonate well-placed explosives in their own home?"

"Kind of draconian in any situation," Javier adds.

"What does it mean?" Kate asks. "I mean, who else is –"

"It means nothing right now, Kate," Esposito cautions as he interrupts her. "Nothing means a damn thing if we don't make it out of this alive."

"Which is why _we_ are here," Kevin tells her, pointing to himself, now moving inside the cabin. "And I for one, don't want to spend another minute out here in the open."

Quickly, his companions offer a rapid glance around and hustle into the cabin, closing the door behind them.

"Feel better now?" Javier asks his friends.

"Much," Kate tells them – both for being inside, but mostly because she is no longer alone. True, it had only been a few hours, but they had been the longest hours of her still-relatively young life. Not knowing who is coming, not knowing if her friends were really coming. Not knowing if this was her last stand. Not knowing if she would be making it alone.

Just not knowing anything.

"Well, don't get too comfortable," he tells them. "Yeah, we were sitting ducks outside. But if we are dealing with military-trained personnel – which Hunt suspects we are – then option number one for these guys is to level this cabin. With us inside it."

The silent, wide-eyed expressions he receives from his friends tells him they completely understand the predicament.

.

 _ **Monday Afternoon – May 30, 2011, 1:45 p.m., Somewhere on I-95 in Connecticut, heading north**_

.

The beautifully tree-lined freeway that leads out of New Haven and heads northeast never ceases to bring a pause of wonder for Evelyn Montgomery. She glances in the rear view mirror at the quiet, sleeping forms of her daughters in the back seat. Seeing her two girls, she once again allows a little of the anger with Roy Montgomery to surface, and once again she is pleased that they never had a son.

"Your name dies with you, Elroy," she muses aloud, just barely under her breath. "No more Montgomery's on this earth . . . at least not by you."

To say the widow of the 12th Precinct's former captain is conflicted is a dramatic understatement. She is thinking back now, as the memories flood her mind as she drives the very familiar scenic route.

The freeway is surrounded by tall trees on either side, hiding the civilization that lives behind them. One would never know what is on the other side of the mammoth green towers of nature, which makes the drive all the more peaceful. She passes one of the gas exits – which essentially puts one on a short, temporary access road that houses a Mobil gas station and a small building housing a McDonald's, a Dunkin Donuts and a small convenience store. It's at least the tenth such exit – by her count – she has passed since entering Connecticut from New York over an hour and a half ago.

Reminiscing, she thinks about how hard it was to even consider giving up Roy. She did love the man, after all. But love can only go so far. And even though she entered into the picture – placed there by Elizabeth Bracken – with full knowledge of Roy's past role in the events surrounding the death of one Johanna Beckett, she always felt that when it came to her . . . when it came to the girls . . . they would always be Roy's top priority.

Taking care of his family – his 'ladies' he always called them – well, he would make the right decisions.

Except that's not what happened. And that's when Roy's final ticket was punched. For the next moment, she is taken back in time to the conversation that fateful night, at their house. The conversation downstairs between Hal Lockwood and Roy Montgomery. Roy thought Evelyn to be upstairs asleep with the girls. This mistake would eventually cost him his life. Evelyn knew that Lockwood was coming that evening. Coming to give Roy an out. Coming to give her husband one more chance to do the right thing.

Hal had given Roy a choice. The detective – Beckett - or his family. It should have been an easy choice. She would have bet money on it.

Instead, she had heard, to her horror – and Hal had all-too-gleefully confirmed – that Roy had waffled. It sounded an awful lot from her vantage point that Roy was actually leaning toward Beckett – when his clear and present choice should have been 'his ladies.'

She slams her fist against the steering wheel in frustration yet again, as she recalls overhearing the conversation with her own ears. Sure, he ended up sending her and the girls away – but the sting of his indecision still hurt. He had a choice to make – Beckett, or his family – and he had opted to try for both.

That made the decision easier for her, for certain.

She blinks back tears of frustration, tears of rage as she refocuses her sights on the road ahead, her radio playing an old R&B tune. It sounds a little like Smokey Robinson, but she is only half listening as the blue-tooth connection in the car interrupts the music with ringing from her telephone.

"This is Evelyn," she answers, seeing the caller-ID from the Senator.

"We have a problem, Evie," he begins. Never one to mince words or offer small-talk, he gets right to the point.

"Clint never checked in," he tells her. It takes a second for the ramifications to hit her.

"Have you –"

"Yes, I did," he replies, knowing she is wondering if he has already sent anyone out into the Sound to check on things.

"Both boats are gone," he continues. "And one left wreckage behind."

"Hers?" she asks, hopefully.

"Unfortunately, no," the Senator replies. "We can only assume that Clint is dead. And the Castle girl has been rescued."

"Are you sure?" she asks. "What are the networks saying?"

"That's just it. Radio silence on the matter," he tells her. "Which tells me that they have her, and have given instructions for no coverage. There is no way there is an explosion less than a mile off the New York shoreline and no media outlets are saying a peep."

Nodding her head in agreement, she is processing things rapidly now, considering her options.

"Where are you, Evie?" he asks.

"Heading upstate along the coast," she answers, again glancing back at her daughters now.

"Good," he replies, knowing she is going to her parent's home in Newport, Rhode Island, as previously agreed. Putting her far from the city, from the state of New York puts her away from the action. Current events aside, she is a valuable piece on his chess board, one he is not prepared to lose.

As if his wife would even allow it.

"There will be no reason for anyone to put you together with young Miss Castle's abduction," he adds. "But getting you away from the fray is important. I will be in touch."

"William," she interrupts, "what does this –"

"Don't worry about things, Evelyn," he counters. "Remember, there are some elements that it is important you know everything about, and some it is just as important you know nothing about."

"Plausible deniability," she says out loud.

"Plausible deniability," he confirms. "It's enough you're going to have to explain why your house was set with explosives. That we can explain away. This? Not so much. Nothing can tie you to this. Let's put as much distance between you and this incident as possible, to keep it this way."

He disconnects without a goodbye – typical for the Senator so she draws no ill conclusion from his behavior. Glancing backward again at the girls, she unconsciously puts a little more pressure on the accelerator, hastening her trip to her parent's home.

And lips pursed, she once again silently curses Roy Montgomery.

.

 _ **Monday Evening – May 30, 2011, 7:59 p.m., At Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

There is nervous laughter in the living area of the cabin, as the three friends are now quadruple-checking their equipment and clothing. Each wears a police-issue Kevlar vest, and will be carrying multiple weapons.

Detective Kate Beckett inspects the Glock 23 with the Osprey 40 Silencer/Suppressor. The trio knows that there will be some level of echo in the woods, but the suppressor should mask their location somewhat. The problem is going to be the goggles, she knows.

A couple of hours ago, after agreeing upon their tactical plan, Javier had gone back to the car. Popping the trunk, he had retrieved a large bag, and a long bag. The long bag contained his rifle. The other contained three sets of thermal imaging goggles along with their silenced weapons and ammunitions. For the past hour, each has been inspecting their equipment, asking questions, ensuring each of them understands the defensive strategy.

Javier will take to the trees, with his scope. They don't know how many they are going to be facing, but if he can take a couple of them out early, they know that will even their odds.

" _Putting me up in the trees does two things," he had told his friends. "First, it gives me a chance to take out one or two of them before they get too close. But just as importantly, it draws their attention to upward to the trees. Drawing their attention to me gives both of you an opportunity to take others out."_

" _It's drawing more than just attention to you, Javier," Kate had argued. "It's drawing fire to you as well."_

" _They're going to be shooting at all of us eventually, Beckett," he had argued back. "Right now they don't know how many people are here. They know you're here, and they believe Castle is here also. Maybe with a nurse. So they are expecting one – maybe two – people who can shoot back. And a guy in a bed. That's our advantage until they realize otherwise."_

" _After your first shot, Kate and I run to the four-wheelers," Kevin continues, referring to the two ATV units that they have already moved on either side of the cabin, some fifty yards away on either side._

" _They will have thermal goggles like ours, and when they see us running, they will think we are trying to escape. They aren't going to be expecting motorized vehicles," Kevin adds. "Thank God your dad has a fun side to him, Beckett."_

Javier Esposito snaps back to the present, startling both companions. His head whips toward the door, as he quickly questions his best friend.

"Did you hear that, Bro?" he asks Kevin Ryan, who now – along with Kate Beckett – is moving toward the window alongside the door. Javier, however, goes straight to the door, his thermal imaging goggles on his head. He quickly pulls them down over his eyes as he opens the door, looking out into the distance a little over half a mile away.

He nods his head as he sees the UH-60 Black Hawk chopper. He wasn't sure what he heard, but the rustling in the tree line from the chopper blades is probably what caught his attention. The ex-Special Forces man has been in combat mode for the past hour and a half, fully alert for anything that is out of the ordinary. The chopper is just above the trees. He can't really see the lines that he knows are dropping, but with the thermal imaging picking up the heat signatures, he can easily see the men who are now rapidly rappelling to the ground, into the trees below.

He frowns as he begins to count.

Four.

Five.

Six.

"Shit," he mutters to himself, as he continues counting.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

"Dammit, you have got to be kidding me," he curses as he counts a tenth man, then another before he sees the heat signature of the pilot start retreating, indicating the drop is complete and the chopper is heading away.

He shakes his head – his mind now racing and recalculating – as he re-enters the cabin. High-powered scope and thermal technology aside, he knows they are in serious trouble. Because these guys more than likely have similar – if not better – technology on them. And they are outnumbered damn near four to one.

"How bad?" Kate asks him as he pulls the goggle up atop his head for a moment.

"Bad," he replies. "I counted eleven."

"You can't be serious," Kate argues, and he does not think less of her for the fear he sees in her eyes. She'd be nuts not to be afraid. He quickly reminds her of this fact.

"Use the fear, Beckett," he tells her, then glances over at his best friend in the world, wondering if it is all going to end tonight. "Use the fear to keep you alert, keep you fresh. Feed off of it."

"Do we have a choice?" Kevin asks, a bit of humor in his voice.

"Yeah," his friend replies, now moving to retrieve his large weapon, while stuffing a smaller pistol in his shoulder holster.

"Live, or die."

.

 _ **Monday Evening – May 30, 2011, The exact same time, about a mile and a half away from the cabin**_

.

Each of the men lands softly on the dense floor of the woods, quickly detaching from the rappelling ropes. All are in full combat gear, with protective vests and communications helmets. The moon is rising, and they are minutes from full darkness just after sunset. Cole Maddox had originally considered a crew of eight, but added Greer and Jenkins at the last minute. Not knowing how many they will be facing, but knowing it is likely going to be two, maybe three – he has opted for better numbers.

"Two groups," he whispers into the mouthpiece, heard by each man. As planned, the team splits into two groups – both approaching from south of the cabin. One team –consisting of five men – quickly splits away, circling northwest while the second – consisting of six men, including himself – circle to the northeast. Together, the two advancing forces form a standard double envelopment movement – also known as a pincer movement.

The moon in the sky is the only light now as they men move forward, slowly and with great stealth. . Each carries decidedly more firepower than their potential victims at the cabin.

"We're expected," Maddox tells them team in their earpieces as they advance.

"How do you know?" comes the expected reply from Greer.

"No lights," Maddox replies. "I noticed when we disembarked. Three bodies there, but no lights. And I didn't notice a patient. No heat signature lying in a bed."

"Then they've already extracted him," Summers comments.

"Or he was never here," Washington remarks.

"Doesn't matter, he was never the target," Maddox reminds the team. "Anyway, no lights means they are running on silent mode."

"Doubtful that they are just going to sit there waiting for us to storm the castle," Greer remarks.

"Affirmative," Maddox replies, now taking the point with his flanking team. "Consider the likelihood of engagement enroute to be highly likely."

The teams move silently and quickly, making up the distance to the cabin with ease. They are a good one hundred yards away from the tree line that opens up toward the cabin when Maddox sees a small opening, and uses a thermal scope to check out the cabin in the distance. He frowns, realizing there are no heat signatures in the cabin anymore.

"Eyes on the ready, boys," he suddenly snaps into his mouthpiece. "There is no one at home up there."

"They're gone?" he hears Griffin ask from the northwest team.

" _Asshole,"_ Maddox thinks to himself as Griffin once again proves he is never included in these missions for his intellect.

"No, that doesn't mean they're gone," Maddox answers for all to hear. "It means they are somewhere out here with us."

He hears the crack of the high-powered rifle as he hears something – or someone – fall some twenty paces to his left.

"Sanders!" he hears Jacobson hiss into his mouthpiece before he hears Jacobson's muffled scream that accompanies the second shot that echoes throughout the forest.

Suddenly he hears the sound of motors gunning, and quickly realizes that – although likely successful – this mission isn't going to be the quick siege he had hoped for. Fortunately, he planned otherwise.

Meanwhile, Javier Esposito had convinced his friends that the safety inside the cabin was a mirage. Knowing they are dealing with military men, the chances were too great that their adversaries would just sit back and drop a few well-placed bombs on the cabin. So all are just north of the cabin – Javier in the trees and Kate and Kevin now racing on the All-Terrain-Vehicles, along either side of the cabin headed toward the woods – goggles on, easily seeing the on-coming party – and each knowing that they are just as easily seen as well.

Accelerating across the slightly bumpy terrain, Kate spots two attackers through her goggles off to her left. She can see them tracking her as well. She lets go with two quick shots from her Glock, just to let them know she isn't trying to flee. It does the trick, as both quickly pause and duck lower in a more protective stance. She smiles as she sees one of them buckle over backwards, and a second later she hears the echo of Javier's third shot. The odds are quickly evening up when she sees the explosion just over a hundred yards directly to her left, parallel with her.

"Oh God . . . Kevin," she cries as she recognizes the tell-tale explosion from the companion ATV. Without warning, she feels intense pain in her left arm as she is thrown backward off her own ATV. She hits the ground hard, all but knocking her breath out as she realizes from the sudden wetness on her blouse arm that she has been shot.

She quickly blinks, willing herself to stay conscious as she sees – through her goggles – the heat form of one of her enemy approaching. Wondering why he hasn't just shot her, she fires a quick shot to the head, blowing him backwards with a spray.

" _Remember, head shots whenever possible," she recalls Javier instructing both she and Kevin Ryan. "They likely are going to have vests as well, so shoot for the head."_

She pulls herself to her feet, quickly scanning for more signatures when a shot to her chest knocks her backward. Protected by the vest, but stumbling, she tries to regain her footing when she her right leg slips out, and she finds herself tumbling down the slight incline toward the running stream below that traverses alongside the cabin. She hears rapid automatic fire – long and constant – open up above her as she finally stops tumbling. She's lost her weapon, and quickly reaches in her calf holster for her second weapon. She takes a long breath – controlling her fear, feeding off her fear – as she begins to advance upward, beginning her climb back into the fray when we she realizes that the automatic gunfire has ceased.

Above her, it is a quiet, silent night. Her heart races as she considers what this might mean – what this likely means – for her friends. There are no loud rounds from Javier echoing across the field, and who knows what has become of Kevin. She is ten feet from the top of the small incline when she hears the scream – and then the automatic gunfire fills the night once again.

.

 **A/N:** A Safe and Happy New Year to all of you. I hope this Christmas season has been good for everyone.

George Michael. Carrie Fisher. Debbie Reynolds. Wow. I just don't even have the words.


	20. Chapter 20

**Glint – Chapter 20**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** So, I apologize for cutting the previous chapter off where I did. I know it seemed an odd place to stop, but I do try to keep a watch of the word count on each chapter. For the pacing of this story, once I get to 3,500 or so words, I know I want to bring that chapter to a close. It's a fine line to walk, as some readers like extended chapters, while I begin to lose others once I get past 4,000 or so words. Past reviews have taught me this.

Anyway, we pick up where we left off . . . with Kate climbing back into the fight.

.

 _ **Monday Evening – May 30, 2011, 8:33 p.m. at Jim Beckett's land and cabin in Upstate New York**_

.

The long, wailing scream echoes across the field, momentarily halting all of the combatants within earshot. Once an idyllic play area for a young Kate Beckett, the area surrounding her father's cabin has been reduced to nothing short of a battlefield. The detective knows that even if she miraculously survives this siege on her father's land, those childhood memories have been obliterated for good. In their place will forever be images of pain, bloodshed and death. This place will never be the same again.

And that's her goal at this moment. To survive so that she will be around to even have new memories, horrific as they might be.

She sets her goggles properly over her eyes before she takes the final couple of steps, pulling herself up from the small ridge, back into play. The first thing she notices is that the steady, disciplined advance that she had noticed previously on the part of her adversaries has begun to disintegrate into a slightly more chaotic retreat, for the most part. Oh, there are still a couple of figures moving forward – obviously in search and destroy mode. Her heart leaps as she realizes that their numbers have dwindled by at least a few.

It's not much, but she will take it.

Pulling herself up, breathing hard now as she heavily favors her left arm, Kate glances out some ten feet in front of her at the heat signature on the ground that is rapidly bleeding out from . . . wait, it isn't gunshots.

" _It looks more like slash wounds,"_ she thinks to herself. Multiple wounds. This guy died hard, and painfully. With this many wounds, she wonders if he even saw his attacker.

"I've got an ally out here somewhere," she realizes, speaking out loud.

Kate winces, dragging her rapidly-numbing left arm at her side, thankful for the little things. A shot in the right arm would have seriously impaired her ability to wage war on this night-field of terror. As it is, she manages to get off a shot at a retreating orange heat signature that is moving away from her. She misses but before she can get off a second shot, she sees the figure suddenly stop, bolting up in his tracks, arms waving. His scream cuts across the field.

"What the –"

Her exclamation is cut short, as the detective blinks as she has to do a double-take. She swears she can almost see a shadow attacking the man. But that's impossible. There are no spirits, no shadows. She's not going to start believing in the mystical side of things this evening. Still, the spray of orange blood that fills the air ahead of her is all too real, and it purges the bile in her stomach upward. She lurches forward, bending as she empties the contents of her stomach. The sudden vomiting saves her life, as a bullet whistles by, mere inches over her lowered head.

"Lucky girl," she manages to offer to herself, wiping the offending liquid from her mouth as she bends, knees on the ground, oblivious to the figure approaching her stealthily.

.

 _ **Meanwhile, about seventy-five yards behind and to the left side of a sprawled out Kate Beckett**_

 **.**

Detective Javier Esposito is on the ground, just below the tree that he had been previously perched in. Seconds ago, he found himself in an unexpected free-fall, watching the ground rapidly rush up to swallow him up. Fortunately, jumping out of airplanes in Special Forces had taught the detective how to fall properly. Now, however, he is writhing in pain, trying to maintain his bearings on the incoming force.

After the second shot, Cole Maddox and his advancing team were able to pinpoint Esposito's position, at that time some fifteen feet above the ground atop one of the tree branches. A spray of automatic fire had sent the NYPD detective sprawling toward the ground. Blood is now soaking his right leg, which has absorbed the brunt of the bullet-ridden assault. He has pulled an oversized hand towel from his pouch, and made a make-shift tourniquet for the injured leg.

No matter, Javier has been on the battlefields of war before. He knows he is not going to last long – not at the rate he has been losing blood and not against this kind of firepower. As a Special Forces soldier, Esposito long ago made his peace with how he would be leaving this planet.

" _Made it longer than I ever dreamed I would,"_ he almost smiles to himself, feeling the dizziness begin to overtake him. No, it won't be long now. But before he goes, though, he figures he can take another one, maybe two perps out with him before the next barrage does him in.

Crawling along the ground surface, he is behind and towards the right side of the house. He can see that Kate Beckett has made it back up to the playing field. She seems to be favoring her left arm. He sees the solitary figure approaching her – very close now – and another about forty yards to her left. The easier shot is the guy farther away.

In a prone position on his stomach, he sets his sights with the large night scope. He closes his eyes against the sweat and the stinging tears in his eyes. He's only going to get one shot at this. As soon as the echoes of this shot rings the wooded field, all eyes will be back in his direction. And that will be that.

He opens his eyes, slowing his ragged breathing just for a few seconds – just long enough. The shot blast is almost comical – as multiple heat signatures stop suddenly, heads bolted in Javier's direction. He chuckles, thinking of a herd of deer who have been suddenly startled still.

The shot rings true, as Kate Beckett notices an orange glow some forty yards away drop the grassy surface. She mentally thanks Javier – and thanks the heavens that Javier is still alive and shooting, not having any idea of the peril now facing young Hispanic man.

.

 _ **Meanwhile, about eighty yards ahead and to the left side of the prone Javier Esposito – almost parallel with Kate Beckett**_

 **.**

Detective Kevin Ryan is fully convinced by now that there is a lucky rabbit – not the toy, stuffed kind – but an entire living and breathing rabbit that is wrapped around his entire body. A minute ago, he had hit an unexpected large bump in the field as he was accelerating his ATV unit navigating it towards their opponents. Losing control, he had gone airborne off the unit, landing roughly, some ten feet away.

His ankle is likely broken. He is hobbled, crawling through the grass, feeling like a sitting duck for the advancing forces. Yet, he knows right now he's the luckiest man in the world. His driver-less ATV unit had continued onward another ten or fifteen feet when it suddenly exploded. He watched, stunned, as the unit went airborne and then landed loudly another few feet further away.

Unknown to the NYPD detective, his unit had run across a trip-wire set by Nurse/Agent Diane Francis earlier. The explosion had taken out the ATV, but also it had knocked one of Major Aaron Griffin's advancing foursome airborne back into a tree. There the unfortunate agent still hangs – lifeless – on the large branch extended from the large tree nearby, his arms hanging limply at his side. The sharp edge extends out from the chest of the dead mercenary, reminding Kevin Ryan of one of the old Alien movies that Javier is so fond of.

Ryan is now dragging himself on the ground, and through his goggles he can see the attention now being turned his way by two more coming his way.

The loud retort from Javier Esposito's final shot freezes everyone – including the two advancing men who approach Javier. The young detective gets off the five remaining shots in rapid fire motion, emptying the clip in his Glock. He is rewarded as one orange figure falls backward, not moving, while the second bowls over to the ground, clutching his leg.

" _Okay, that kind of evens things up,"_ he thinks to himself. He has heard three shots from Javier, and he knows his friend doesn't miss. He knows he has put one out himself, and another is injured – as is he. Statistically, Kate has likely gotten at least one.

"Cut in half," he thinks out loud, realizing there are still five or six out here. Sure enough, he can see their images, from his kneeling position on the ground. He can't pull himself completely up, as he can't put any pressure on his injured ankle.

It turns out to be a moot point, as the next round hits him square in the chest. The Kevlar protects him, thankfully, but the force still drives him to the ground, and drives the breath out of him.

"No, dammit, no," he hisses to the universe as he feels the blackness begin to overtake him.

His last thoughts of consciousness are empty apologies to his friends.

.

 _ **Meanwhile, about thirty yards ahead of a sprawled out Kate Beckett, and moving quickly . . .**_

 **.**

The lithe, shadowy figure moves with almost cat-like accuracy. The figure is cloaked with an ordinary thermal blanket which effectively blocks the body from being visible to the infrared thermal imaging vision equipment currently on display this evening. Ideally one would want to literally blend in with the background in this environment, and although the blanket does not allow that, it does mask the heat signature enough to fool the technology at a first pass.

The figure, moving smoothly and violently across the field of play, only needs that first pass.

Craig Washington was approaching Kate Beckett when three unseen, violent slashes brutally ended his life. The man is almost dead on his feet, and the shadowy figure doesn't even bother to stop to check the work.

No need.

Onward the shadow moves, almost too silent for a human being. It is clear the figure is easily at home in nature, in the woods. In the dark. It moves – almost gliding – through the field searching and acquiring targets with relative ease.

A silenced weapon appears in hand, and whispers quick death to a mercenary flanking Cole Maddox. Glancing backward, the shadow smiles – literally in the midst of battle – recognizing the wounded, orange form of Kate Beckett trying to keep pace, trying to identify her unknown ally.

Within seconds, the figure is within five feet of Cole Maddox, approaching undetected from his left side.

Well, almost undetected.

Various tours of duty have honed the Special Forces man's senses, and that is what saves him. He seems to sense the presence approaching him, and quickly wheels in that direction, weapon raised.

Not seeing the expected orange glow upon him ruins whatever advantage Maddox has. The shadowy figure extends a quick forward kick, knocking the weapon from Maddox's hands.

Quickly ripping off his goggles, he now clearly sees the shrouded form in front of him. The face is masked completely – almost ninja-like. Gloves and the cloak complete the outfit.

"Smart," he offers out loud, as he crouches down into defensive position. "Thermal blanket," he notes.

The figure simply nods a head – there will be no words this evening. There is only death, and survival. From within the cloak appear two long knives – each one roughly two feet long. Not quite swords, but deadly enough.

"Okay," Maddox smiles. "Let's play," he continues as he deftly reaches down to his calves and pulls out two smaller but no-less-deadly knives from their sheaths.

The clanging of metal is heard within thirty to forty yards, drawing the attention of the remaining combatants to the mano e mano battle that has commenced toward the middle of the field. Maddox is good. He quickly realizes that his opponent is just as good – if not better. The two exchange rapid thrusts and parries, neither drawing blood.

" _He's just feeling me out,"_ Maddox realizes, now frowning with concern for the first time. The realization comes too late, as one of his allies gets too close to the action. Without hesitation, the figure launches one of its two blades at the advancing merc. The blade easily cuts straight into, and through, the man's throat. He falls dead before he hits the ground.

Maddox is so taken aback by the audacity of the move – his opponent has willingly – and without hesitation – given up one of his weapons. Before Maddox can react, the figure drops low toward the ground. Maddox sees the roundhouse kick coming, and launches himself in the air.

It is his fatal move, as the figure – anticipating the defensive reaction – suddenly breaks off the roundhouse, and instead launches itself airborne. A long, arching swipe cuts through the night air.

Maddox falls to the ground, gasping for air, knowing that his windpipe has been severed. Knowing that these are – suddenly and unexpectedly – his final seconds alive. His hand covers the wound right as the slashing pain finally registers in his brain. His last gurgles are cut off as the long blade explodes up a second time, this time through his chin and upward into his brain.

"My God," Detective Kate Beckett exclaims, now less than ten feet away and completely unable to contain the brutality of the moment. That, and the loss of blood from her arm has finally overtaken her. She falls to her knees, breathing hard. The smell of vomit is still strong on her breath, acting as a stimulant of sorts.

The figure turns, ignoring the dead leader and pulls Kate to her feet, dragging her by her good arm a few paces before bending over and suddenly picking the detective up into the air in a fireman's carry maneuver, ever protective of the damaged arm.

Fortunately, the remaining two or three enemies of the evening have made a hasty retreat. Maddox is down for the count, and nothing about this mission has lived up to the woefully inadequate billing it was given.

Kate allows herself to be carried back to the cabin, as the figure kicks in the front door, dropping the detective on the sofa in the middle of the living area. Just as quickly, the figure is gone, now making double time around the cabin to the outside area behind the home. Two minutes later, the figure returns with the unconscious – and badly bleeding form of Javier Esposito.

Before Kate can speak, the figure takes off the hooded mask. The detective lies on the sofa, stunned beyond words, as she stares at one of the most beautiful women she has ever seen. A beauty only surpassed by the pure look of ruthless cold in her eyes. She shakes her head, releasing long, black hair that cascades down the woman's shoulders, as she finally speaks.

"ваш отец посылает привет."

(Translated from Russian: "His father sends his regards")

She isn't sure which is more surprising. The fact that the woman is speaking Russian – that the woman _knows_ to speak Russian to Kate – or the fact that she immediately realizes that 'his father' refers to Castle's father.

Jackson Hunt.

Before Kate can reply, the woman continues.

"Вертолет будет здесь менее чем за две минуты"

(Translated from Russian: "The helicopter will be here in two minutes")

"You're . . . you're Russian," Kate manages, stating the obvious of course. Given this evening, she can be forgiven.

"Я друг."jkjfdas kjfdsal

"A friend, you say," Kate replies, still speaking English, then fluently switches to Russian.

Как? Кто вас послал?

(Translated from Russian: "How? Who sent you?")

Tell his father that I have fulfilled my debt to him," the woman replies in slightly broken English as she pulls the thermal blanket – a cloak, actually – over her head and lays it on the small table in front of the detective. Sure enough, Kate can hear the sound of the chopper blades approaching, and her next thought is of Kevin Ryan.

"My friend," she says, trying to rise, but the woman's hands are now on her – easing her back into the sofa. Kate is struck by the gentle nature of those hands, given what she has just witnessed them doing minutes before.

"I will find him," the woman replies with a smile, still speaking in heavily accented English. She opens a pouch on her belt, and pulls out a small duo container. She takes out one contact lens, then a second, and pops them in each eye. Suddenly, the dark and soulless black eyes are transformed into bright, lively blue eyes. She quickly reaches up and wraps her hair in a tight bun, tying it together with ease before retrieving a blonde wig from the pouch. She shakes it out, and – her eyes never leaving Kate's – smiles as she places the wig atop her head, wrestling it into place.

"Diane?" Kate offers – questioning and exclaiming simultaneously.

"Some know me as Nurse Diane Francis, yes," Nurse/Agent Diane Francis replies, now using absolutely perfect English, mimicking a Midwestern accent. She moves quickly to the broken down door, and steps over the lower jagged portion to exit the cabin.

"Who are you? I mean really?" Kate asks.

"Others know me as Elena," the blonde bombshell replies, this time in English with a clear Russian accent.

Kate can only laugh as unconsciousness finally wins its battle with her, as she glances at her equally unconscious partner before succumbing to the waiting darkness.

.

 **A/N:** A couple more chapters to finish this tale. Thank you to all who have been reading, reviewing, following, favoriting – and of course – giving me ideas for future stories.


	21. Chapter 21

**Glint – Chapter 21**

.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 **A/N:** So, we are approaching the end of our tale – picking up three days after the firefight in upstate New York.

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 _ **Three days later, Thursday Morning – June 2, 2011, 7:45 a.m. At a hospital near the Yale campus in New Haven, Connecticut**_

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Richard Castle winces against the morning sunlight that has harshly invaded his small, but highly functional patient room on the fourth floor of the well-known hospital. He notices the cause of the sudden intrusion of light, and smiles weakly at Detective Kate Beckett, who stands at the window, opening the blinds.

The room smells of antiseptic – much as any hospital room would. He's been here for the past three days. The CIA chopper had brought him directly here. When the chopper lifted away, the agents in the copter knew that Kate Beckett believed they were taking him to some undisclosed location at Langley – which is exactly what Beckett had surmised. She was quite surprised, therefore, when she found herself taken to this hospital near downtown New Haven, Connecticut, where a few of the doctors on the payroll work in a more clandestine manner – unknown to their peers.

"Feeling better, Castle?" the detective asks. Her dark brown hair is below her shoulders, and she is still sporting a functional sling around her arm.

"I suppose I should ask you the same question," he replies, rubbing the sleep from his tired eyes. Eyes that for the first time in days are showing signs of life, that distinct sparkle of the sugar-rushed child she has – unknowingly until now – grown to love.

"Well, the pain is really kicking in, so I suppose that's a good thing," she tells him. "The pills are wonderful though," she continues with a chuckle.

"Care to throw some this way?" he asks, smiling.

"Trust me, I think you already have the better drugs, Castle," she tells him, now moving towards his bed. She plops down in the chair next to him, watching him continue to pull himself from a good night of slumber – the first in over a week. She watches him rub this chest – not from pain, but more likely from the incessant itching from the surgical incision.

"Rise and shine," she continues. "PT starts at 8:30 and we need to get some food in you."

"And here I thought you were supposed to be the kind and gentle one here," he deadpans, pulling himself slowly upward.

"Uh, uh, uh," she admonishes him, standing quickly and putting just enough pressure on his shoulders to force him back down. She then leans over his bed – her hair, her face, her body – all coming in far too close proximity as she reaches across to grab the remote handset to control his motorized bed. He takes in her smell – just a subtle hint of perfume.

" _Vanilla"_ he thinks to himself.

He closes his eyes as his mind – against his will – takes him back days before – to a setting on a swing set just outside the woods at Jim Beckett's upstate cabin. Even in his drugged and sleepy state, her words come back to him just as clearly now as if she is speaking them to him this morning.

" _I could never leave you. I love you."_

He, of course, had reacted magnificently to her unexpected but heart-felt declaration of love. He passed out. Fainted dead away. Somehow, he knows he will never live that one down. Still – even to this moment – he has yet to respond appropriately, or even acknowledge her statement. And it bothers him, because he knows the more time that he allows to pass, he lessens the impact of his response.

" _You know you love her, so what's the problem?"_ he asks himself silently – not for the first time in the past few days.

His eyes remain closed, and his mind far away, as the head of the mechanical bed slowly but surely lifts upward, the motor purring in his ears.

Or is that her?

The knock on the door startles him out of his reverie, and the smile on his face brightens as he sees the young red-head enter his room.

"Hi Daddy," she offers as she quickly makes her way across the room to the bed. Her limp is pronounced, and suddenly his eyes sting. It is a stark reminder that he is not the only one injured here. His daughter. The detective. The other detectives. All have been charged a steep cost in the past couple of weeks.

But it all comes back to his pumpkin. And he loves when she calls him "Daddy".

Kate willingly steps aside, allowing Alexis Castle to take her place alongside the bed. The young woman to-be bends over the bed as she wraps her arms around her father, and feels his tears on her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Pumpkin," he tells his daughter for at least the tenth time in the past two days, since they have been reunited. Alexis Castle is a patient the room next to Castle, and next to her are the two other detectives from the 12th Precinct.

"Don't worry, Daddy," she replies, suddenly the grown-up in the relationship. "We both know this wasn't your fault."

He closes his eyes again, as if closing himself off will change the truth. Which is that he believes that all of this _is_ his fault. He's the one who has followed, shadowed and chased the detective. He is the one who has been playing cops and robbers. Had he not – they wouldn't be here right now. But play this game he has – for a few years now.

And his daughter is the one who has suffered.

"I'm going to step out," Kate tells the father and daughter, giving them a few minutes to themselves. She sees both the gratitude – and the hope – in the author's eyes.

"I'm just going next door," she promises. "I will be right here, Rick."

She smiles, and shuts the door. Taking a deep breath, she steels herself for the next conversation. Javier Esposito had come out of surgery two days ago as best he could. This is a conversation she has dreaded since he was moved out of ICU last night.

Detective Esposito's world has taken a dramatic turn in the past few days. The detective has a broken fibula in the right leg from the fall from the tree, where he was perched in sniper mode back at her father's cabin.

Protecting her. Fighting for her.

Worse, he has suffered – according to the surgeons – significant muscle damage in his right leg from two high-velocity slugs that tore through. He is likely going to walk with a pronounced limp for the rest of his life, and definitely is going to be challenged with pain management for the foreseeable future.

She puts on a brave face as she enters his room and gazes upon her completely immobile partner of many years. His eyes are closed, his face somewhat peaceful. She knows it is the drugs. She sees both of his legs – heavily bandaged – lying useless in the bed. Her heart breaks and the tears flow endlessly, against her will. She releases a sob that reaches the ears of the young Hispanic detective. His eyes open, and find hers.

"Now don't go doing that," he whispers as his face morphs from peaceful to painful. Evidently the drugs aren't quite that powerful.

"Oh Javi, I am so sorry," she tells her friend, the guilt painted across her face.

"Don't," he tells her but she is having none of it.

"It was my fight," she tells him.

"A fight you were going to lose without us," he reminds her, unaware of the Russian assassin who had stayed cloaked in darkness, more than evening the odds in their favor.

His eyes close again, fighting the raging pain in his lower extremities. Truth be told, his broken left leg is nothing more than a dull ache. It is the bullet-ridden right leg that is screaming loudly at him at the moment.

She stands next to the bed, both hands on the raised rail. Her head hangs in defeat – in stark contrast to the actual victory that she and her friends have won – at great cost. His right hand finds her left hand, grasping atop it as she holds on to the railing, offering her a supportive squeeze. He holds no illusions to his plight, to his future. He knows the damage to his legs – and the fact that it is both legs has pushed recovery options well into the future.

"Kevin?" he asks, trying to push his own situation into the background. When she doesn't answer, the concern grows in his voice.

"Kate?" he questions. "What's happened with –"

"He's fine, Javi," she tells him, her mind returning to the present. "Well, not exactly fine. He took a shot to the mid-section. He's going to be fine, though. He's next door."

Esposito nods his head, finding the strength to smile at his best friend's fortune.

"So . . . we won?" he asks, his eyes searching hers.

"Well, we survived," she gives. "And we had a little help."

If the injured detective hears her, he doesn't acknowledge it. They survived. Given the odds they faced, he will take that. The fight – which far more resembled his war-time excursions more than a criminal investigation – ended more favorably than he could have imagined. His injuries are extreme – he is no fool – and the pain in the right leg that is throbbing now explodes with a grunt of pain as a grotesque mask replaces his normally cheerful expression. His right hand tightens atop Kate's left. She responds by placing her right hand atop his – squeezing tightly.

"Javi –"

"No regrets, Beckett," he hisses through tight lips, squeezing his eyes against the pain.

"But –"

"No regrets, soldier," he repeats, his mind quickly morphing back to military mode. "A good mission," he tells her. "A good mission."

.

 _ **Two days later, Saturday Afternoon – June 4, 2011, 2:30 p.m. at an estate along Ocean Avenue in Newport, Rhode Island**_

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Michael Smith, attorney at law, smiles as the cool ocean wind kisses his face. He stares out into the distance as the blue waters of Rhode Island Sound disappear into the horizon. The news of the deaths of three New York detectives had dominated the local news for a few days, but now the networks have moved on to the next story.

Of course, neither the attorney – nor the Senator in the nation's capital that he works for – are aware that the news of the deaths of the NYPD resources is completely false. To their credit, neither are the networks who have reported the news. As far as they know, the information they have been provided is sound – they have no reason to doubt it.

There was an ambush of three NYPD officers, who were vacationing in upstate New York. A firefight ensued as the officers bravely fought to defend themselves, but in the end, the small cabin housing the detectives had been leveled by military-grade ordinance – which drove the story for the past few days.

Unknown to Smith – and Bracken – the cabin had been leveled by Elena Markov prior to her departure from the upstate area after the firefight. The charred bodies found inside were those of Maddox's men that she had moved inside. The bodies had been delivered to a tearful and distraught Lanie Parrish, who was quickly informed of the ruse by Markov – in disguise. Told to issue a statement that the charred bodies of two men and a woman were recovered – and that dental records confirmed the identities of the detectives – the ruse became complete. Captain Victoria Gates was highly uncomfortable with the ruse, until a late night visit from a CIA operative changed her mind.

Unaware of the ruse, Smith smiles again as he sips the Chardonnay in the glass, then places it carefully on the small table in the sand. He closes his eyes, reveling in the long-awaited victory over the detective of the 12th Precinct. He takes a couple of long breaths, when he hears noise to his right. He turns, opening his eyes – which widen in fear as he sees the gray-haired figure who has noiselessly pulled a beach chair alongside the man.

"I love surprising assholes like you," the gravelly voice offers. Smith attempts to quickly stand, but an unseen pair of strong, black hands push him back downward into his chair.

"Not yet my friend," Terrance Cooper chuckles. The fact that he offers no other words frightens the attorney into submission.

"I see the questions in your mind. Let me answer them. A few days ago, while you were tracing Detective Beckett's location – I was tracing yours," Jackson Hunt tells the now despondent man, who can see his rapidly-shortening life pass before his eyes.

"My wife?" he asks.

"Still out shopping, or wherever she spends her Saturday afternoons," Cooper tells him, now alongside him to his left.

"That said, I have a question for you," Hunt continues, bringing the attention back to himself. "I know all about Bracken. I know what he has done. Now don't look so surprised – we don't have time. What I want to know about is Evelyn Montgomery. What was her role in all of this?"

Smith considers his dwindling options quickly. This man obviously knows about Bracken, so lying is not a good idea. Hell, he is probably going to die anyway. But perhaps he can buy himself some time, some mercy, if he will provide them with some information. It's a long shot, of course, but it is something.

"You're talking about Montgomery's wife?" he deadpans, testing his options. "You're going to kill me anyway."

"You're small fry, Smith. Not worth my time – except for a few questions I need answered. So here is the deal. I promise you I won't kill you, if you give me what I am looking for," Hunt promises, while belittling the attorney. "I just want to know the players involved. And I trust you won't be stupid enough to speak about this little discussion after I am gone."

Smith nods, relieved at the reprieve he is being offered.

"Evelyn is best friends with Elizabeth," Smith begins. He waits for that information to blossom, and sees the recognition in Hunt's eyes when Hunt realizes who 'Elizabeth' is.

"Bracken's wife?" Hunt questions.

"None other," Smith answers, his courage now evident as he finds his voice. "College friends. She was planted in Montgomery's life. Used her wiles to get close to him. Got him to fall in love with her. Her job was to keep an eye on him."

For a moment Jackson Hunt simply stares ahead at the waters laid out in front of them. He has always loved the ocean – particularly the Atlantic, although his preference is on the European side, where ocean sunsets are more prevalent.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," he almost whispers, as he stands. He brushes his pants off briskly, then glances back out to the ocean.

"You promised," Smith reminds him, although with considerably less confidence now. He glances to his left, and sees that the larger black man to his left is no longer there. Glancing back to his right, he sees Jackson Hunt walking away. A thin smile forms on the older man's lips, as he cannot believe his good fortune. He quickly stands – or at least attempts to stand, when a pair of hands push him back into his seat for a second time. These hands feel different, though.

He glances and see long, thin white fingers . . . with dark maroon nail polish?

"What the –"

His words are interrupted by a soft, husky female voice that speak in his ear . . . he feels her breath along his neck. Her words raise the hairs on his neck.

"He promised that _he_ would not kill you," the Russian beauty reminds him. "He made no such promise about me."

He barely feels the sharp knife slice through his jugular. All he knows is that he is choking, and breaths are impossible to suck in. Then the pain hits. Smith falls sideways, hands grasping desperately at this torn throat, as his life force slowly drains away. Laying sideways on the sand, facing the waters he loves so much, the light slowly fades as the blue waters in the distance turn black.

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 _ **The next day, Sunday Morning – June 5, 2011, 5:03 a.m. at an old colonial home in Washington, D.C.**_

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Senator William Bracken isn't sure what has awakened him. He only knows that something is wrong. He glances furtively around his bedroom – which is still dark – as sunrise is an hour away. He is about to move when he sees the dark figure. A man. He is just sitting there, in the large chair next to the window. He turns to Elizabeth, who is sleeping next to him.

Except she isn't sleeping. Her eyes are wide open, her mouth taped shut with gray tape. He sees the fear in her eyes and follows them to the figure – dressed all in black – that stands next to her side of the bed.

"Liz?" he questions, beginning to rise up from the bed.

"Not so fast, Senator," he hears the words fall from the stranger's lips. The man in the chair is now walking slowly toward the bed – and he is carrying an impressive gun. Silenced, of course. His heart begins to race, as the Senator begins counting off his options. Elizabeth is alive, so they aren't here to kill her. The stranger seemingly was just sitting there, waiting patiently for him to awaken. He idly wonders how long the intruders have been in their house – in their bedroom – just sitting there.

Waiting.

"I will be brief, Senator," Jackson Hunt begins. "I know who you are, and what you have done. Let me tell you a story. It has a happy ending. Although not for you, I fear."

He allows the words to hang there, ensuring that both the man and his wife get the full picture before continuing.

"There was an ambush in upstate New York last week. Three police officers from the NYPD died. At least that's the official story. The real story? They are quite alive. Including Detective Beckett. And they will reappear again, soon. Your assault force, as you have suspected, did not make it out alive. That is why you haven't heard from them."

There is a sobbing noise heard next to the Senator, as a struggling, sniffling Elizabeth Bracken is finding breathing through her nose difficult.

"Quiet, bitch, before I lose my patience," the figure next her tells her with a heavy Russian accent.

"I'd listen to her," Hunt continues, "Since she took out the majority of your men with what I can only surmise was relative ease, as she tells me."

He brushes Bracken's legs aside, and now sits on the edge of the bed – creating a highly uncomfortable and physically imposing moment for the Senator.

"Anyway, back to my story. The police detectives are alive – and soon they are going to know your identity, your involvement . . . your role as the kingpin of sorts here. I can promise you, they won't be very happy. In fact, I have to tell you I am not very happy. Normally, I kill people like you without a second thought. But because of who you are – who you work for – who _I_ work for – I can't move on you just yet. We both work for the same government, although I suspect my allegiance is a bit more . . . corporate than yours."

Hunt reaches into the satchel he has been carrying, and Elizabeth Bracken whimpers – fearing the worst. Instead, Hunt retrieves an hour glass – about eighteen inches in height. He places the hour glass on the small nightstand on the Senator's side of the bed. With a bit of ceremony, he turns the hour glass over. For a few seconds, no one speaks. All eyes are on the sands that slowly fall through the small funnel and onto the bottom of the antique timepiece.

"Like the sands falling through this small opening, so are your plans, and your ambitions. And your life, Senator. I am a man of my word . . . and here is the word I leave for you. I promise you . . . at the right time, the last thing your eyes will see before you leave this earth will be my face once again."

With that, Hunt takes the large handgun and brings it down sharply across the Senator's forehead, knocking the man out. Elizabeth Bracken screams – muffled by the tape across her mouth – as Elena Markov quickly thrusts a needle into her neck, injecting her with a clear liquid.

"Sleep for a bit," Markov says, now in perfect English. "It is a better fate than you deserve."

"For now," Hunt reminds his protégé and partner. "Only for now."

.

 **A/N:** The Epilogue is next – I've posted it simultaneously with this chapter. Happy reading.


	22. Chapter 22

**Glint – Epilogue**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.

.

 _ **Monday Afternoon – June 6, 2011, 1:30 p.m. at a Hospital near the Yale campus in New Haven, CT**_

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Richard Castle drops his large frame into the oversized wheelchair, placing his feet into the small foot platform. He resembles an adult trying to sit in an elementary school desk and chair, and Alexis – who stands next to him, smiling – can barely stifle a small giggle. He allows it. Both are anxious to get out of there and get home.

And he's just happy to see his daughter up and around again.

"I feel stupid," he tells the detective who stands behind the wheelchair, her hands on each handlebar. She is of two minds right now. She is thrilled to be leaving the hospital with the man she now realizes that she loves. And she is anxious to see where this revelation takes them. At the same time, she knows she is only escorting him to the hospital entrance/exit. There is no way she can leave her injured friend and partner behind, alone.

As if on cue, their uncanny mind meld rears its head once again as Castle glances backward at his muse.

"Before we go," he begins, "take me to Javier."

She nods her head, and wheels him out of the room and turns left, Alexis still by his side. She wheels him past the room Alexis was in until this morning as well. Both are being released. None even offer a glance at the room. The next room comes up quickly, and the door is already open. The three wheel and walk their way into the room, to be greeted by the worried face of Kevin Ryan, who stands next to the bed of his long-time friend.

"Hey there," Ryan welcomes, his voice full of emotion. As he speaks, Javier Esposito –already half-lying and half-sitting in an inclined position in the bed – raises his head and looks around his friend at the visitors standing in his doorway.

"Hey guys," he offers weakly. All are aware of the long road ahead for their friend.

"They finally kicking the Castles out of here?" Javier smiles. His friends appreciate the humor Esposito offers them. The guilt on everyone is tangible.

"Can you believe it?" Richard Castle deadpans. "Both of us, in one day. I should be offended that they want to get rid of us so badly."

"Hi Javier," Alexis greets him, ignoring her father's attempt at humor and moving toward the bed. She leans in over the handrails and reaches out to the detective. She gently hugs the injured man, holding him gently, but tightly. Her red hair falls across his face as she whispers tearfully into his left ear.

"Thank you, Javi," her whispered cry offers.

"Hey, chica, don't cry for me," he tells her. "Didn't you hear? We won," he continues, his voice low and breaking slightly.

"But look at you, Javi," she argues. "I'm so sorry. I'm so grateful. I don't know –"

"Lexi," he interrupts, using the nickname he saves for her. "No regrets," he reminds her, now glancing at a tearful Kate Beckett as well. Kate cannot hear the next words between the detective and the daughter of Richard Castle, but notices the short laughter they share. Alexis hugs him once more before nodding at Kevin Ryan and departing the room.

"I'll be outside, Dad," she tells her father and Kate tearfully, as Kate wheels her father closer, toward the bed.

"Thank you, Javi," Castle repeats the grateful plea from his daughter as he comes alongside the bed. Kevin Ryan offers a glance to Kate, shaking his head. She understands.

"I will never be able to repay you for what you did," Castle continues. "For taking care of –"

"We're all partners, Castle," Esposito interrupts. "We take care of each other. You know that."

"How long?" Castle asks his friend, glancing at his legs. Esposito nods, knowing exactly what he is asking.

"A couple of months for the left leg," Javier replies. "The right? Hell, I don't know. They've told me to settle in for the long haul, so . . ."

"What's the prognosis there?" Castle asks, although he already has his suspicions.

"A cane and a constant bottle of Percocet," Esposito chuckles against the pain, and both me laugh at nod to a recent medical television show, only recently off the air.

"You wish you were that smart," Castle puns, and both men smile. "Still . . ."

He leaves the thought unsaid, and for the next few minutes, the foursome sit quietly, with only a few words shared. Kate leans across, placing a kiss on her damaged friend's forehead, then offers a hug to Kevin Ryan.

"I'm walking Castle out, and I'll be back, Javi," she tells him.

"Kate, I'm good," he tells her. "Go home, go back to the city. I will be –"

"I'm leaving when you're leaving, and not a minute before," she counters. Her tone is final, and he knows arguing with her at this point is useless.

"See you in a few, then," he half smiles, getting a smile in return from the detective as she wheels Richard Castle out of the room and into the hallway. Alexis joins them as they approach the elevator.

"So, it's over?" she asks, innocently.

Richard Castle glances backward at Kate, who holds on to the bars of the wheelchair. Both have spoken with Jackson Hunt in the past hour, via telephone. Both are aware of the full scope of her war now. Bracken. Smith. Evelyn.

Even Evelyn.

There is no way either will lie to the young woman. Not after what she has gone through. Not after what this personal war has cost her. Cost them all.

"No pumpkin," her father replies, noting the surprise – and sudden fear – in his daughter's eyes. "This is far from over."

.

 _ **Tuesday Morning – June 7, 2011, 9:45 a.m. at a home in Connecticut**_

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The doorbell rings, singing a cheerful tune throughout the large estate home in North Haven, Connecticut. There is laughter heard inside – the kind of easy, happy laughter and banter found in close-nit families who don't see one another nearly enough.

"I've got it Mom," Evelyn Montgomery yells back toward the kitchen to her mother who is fixing breakfast. The elderly black woman has been enjoying unexpected time with her daughter and grandchildren. Her husband is on the deck, drinking coffee and reading his newspaper, as he normally does each morning. A real newspaper, of course. He likes the feel of the paper in his hands, the touch of the ink that inevitably marks his fingers as he turns the pages.

The smells and sounds of sizzling bacon and English muffins fills the happy home.

Roy Montgomery's widow opens the door, and her smile, her voice – and breath – they all abandon her as she stands face-to-face with Detectives Kate Beckett and Kevin Ryan. The harshness in their eyes tells her that it is over. The badge that Detective Beckett holds in one hand – the other arm is in a sling – offers a glint of sunlight reflected back onto her face. She raises a hand to shield her eyes, while her shoulders slump, and she fights back tears as her daughters suddenly appear at her side.

"Who is it, Mama?" the youngest asks.

Evelyn glances down at her daughter, who stands at her side, barely reaching above the woman's waist. Her eyes find those of Kate Beckett.

"Please, not in front of my children," Evelyn Montgomery pleads.

"They can get used to visiting you," Kevin Ryan offers coldly, stepping forward. Any mercy that could possibly be shared with the woman has been all but used up, as far as Ryan is concerned. The betrayal all feel drives them forward on this most unpleasant task.

"Evelyn Montgomery, you are under arrest for kidnapping, attempted murder, and whatever else I can think up between here and the police station."

As he speaks, Kate Beckett spins the woman harshly, snapping handcuffs on the distraught woman, before lowering the final blow to her.

"And if I were you, I'd call an attorney instead of your good friend, the Senator's wife," Kate tells her, all but hissing the words through clenched teeth. "I'm not sure how much longer she is going to be able to help you."

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 **A/N:** So this ends this particular tale, and as you can tell, I've let this open to continue telling more stories in this AU. In the end, we've come full circle to a different way of Kate Beckett discovering William Bracken's horrific role in her family's life. Physically, Javier Esposito is a different man moving forward, and Kevin Ryan is a different man emotionally, now with a harder edge. Richard Castle certainly has a different perspective moving forward. A long-desired love has been declared, but his daughter is a casualty of that love. It opens the door for some interesting stories, to say the least.

This story took a lot longer than I had planned, due to some unforeseen family issues – so I apologize to everyone. Look for a new story, "Serial" set in the Different Road Taken AU next. I hinted at this one during the writer's panel, and will start posting it in the next month or so.


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